THE  LAST  STRAW 


THE  LAST  STRAW 


By  HAROLD  TITUS 


Author  of 

^ Bruce  of  the  Circle  A,* 

''J  -  Conquered,**  etc 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 


Publishers 


New  York 


Publi^ed  by  arrmngement  with  Small    Maynard  and  Company 


11 


CJopyright,  1920, 

By  small,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
(incorporated) 


2(^1 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  New  Boss i 

II  My  Advice,  Ma'am ii 

III  The  Nester  —  and  Another 22 

IV  The  Champion 44 

V  The  Courting 57 

VI  Outcasts 66 

VII  The  Catamount 71 

VIII  And  Now,  the  Clergy 79 

IX  The  Destroyer 86 

X  A  Matter  of  Direction    .         96 

XI  Hepburn's  Play 107 

XII  A  Neighborly  Call 115 

XIII  The  Frame-Up 134 

XIV  The  Big  Chance 144 

XV  War! 150 

XVI  The  Warning ic6 

XVII  His  Faithful  Little  Pony 167 

XVIII  An  Interrupted  Proposal 183 

XIX  Concerning  Sam  McKee 189 

XX  "  Work  Among  the  Heathen  ''■' 194 

XXI  Renunciation        207 

XXII  The  Reverend's  Strategy 216 

XXIII  Beck's  Departure 224 

XXIV  In  the  Shadow 230 

XXV  A  Mountain  Portia 243 

XXVI  Battle!         271 

XXVII  The  Last  Straw 2S1 


M55S953 


THE  LAST  STRAW 


T 


THE  LAST  STRAW 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   NEW    BOSS 

HE  last  patches  of  snow,  even  in  the  most  secluded 
gulches,  had  been  licked  up  by  the  mounting  sun; 
the  waters  of  Coyote  Creek  had  returned  to  the  confines  of 
the  stream  bed ;  in  places  a  suggestion  of  green  was  making 
its  appearance  about  the  bases  of  grass  clumps,  and  cotton- 
wood  buds  were  swelling.  Four  men  sat  on  the  bench  be- 
fore the  bunkhouse  of  the  H.  C.  ranch ;  one  was  braiding  a 
belt,  another  whittling  and  two  more,  hats  over  their  eyes 
to  shield  them  from  the  brilliant  light,  joined  in  the  de- 
sultory conversation  from  time  to  time. 

In  the  pauses,  such  as  the  one  now  prevailing,  was  some- 
thing besides  the  spirit  of  idling.  Dad  Hepburn,  gray  of 
hair,  eye  and  mustache,  but  with  the  body  of  a  young  man, 
who  sat  nearest  the  doorway,  glanced  frequently  towards 
the  road  as  though  expecting  to  see  another  come  that  way 
to  bring  fresh  interest ;  Two-Bits  Beal  was  uneasy  and  diH 
not  remain  long  in  one  pose,  as  men  do  who  sit  in  the  first 
real  warmth  of  spring  for  its  own  sake ;  Jimmy  Oliver,  the 
whittler,  stopped  now  and  then  and  held  his  head  at  an 
angle,  as  if  listening;  and  although  he  worked  industriously 
at  the  belt  it  was  evident  that  Tom  Beck  had  thought  for 
other  aflfairs. 

"  So  she  was  his  nephew  an'  only  heir,"  commented  Two- 
Bits,  gravely.  Hepburn  stirred  and  snorted  softly.  Jimmy 
Oliver  looked  at  the  homely,  freckle-blotched  face  of  the 

I 


2  THE  LAST  STRAW 

gaunt  speaker  and  grinned.  After  a  moment  Tom  Beck 
said : 

'*  Two-Bits,  for  a  smart  man  you  know  less  than  any- 
body I  ever  encountered !  When  I  first  set  eyes  on  you, 
I  said  to  myself,  '  That  man  ain't  real.  He's  no  work  of 
God  A'mighty.  Some  of  these  hombres  that  draw  cartoons 
for  newspapers  got  him  up.'  But  I  thought  you  must  have 
brains,  seein'  you're  so  powerful  low  on  looks.  You're  a 
good  cowhand  and  a  first  rate  horse  handler,  but  won't  you 
ever  get  anything  in  your  head  but  those  things?  Or  did 
this  cartoonist  make  a  mistake  an'  put  your  kidneys  in 
your  skull? 

"  Niece ;  niece !     Not  nephew  !  " 

"  Have  it  your  way,"  Two-Bits  said  in  his  high  voice, 
swallowing  so  his  immense  Adam/s  apple  shot  up  half  the 
extraordinary  length  of  his  lean  throat  toward  his  pointed 
chin,  and  slipped  back  again  with  a  jerk.  *'  I  was  half 
right,  wasn't  I  ?  She's  his  only  heir,  ain't  she  ?  You  can't 
ask  a  man  to  be  more  'n  half  right,  can  you?  " 

"If  his  heir  'd  been  a  nephew  instead  of  a  niece,  we 
wouldn't  all  be  settin'  here  so  anxious  about  this  arrival," 
opined  Jimmy.  "  An'  we  wouldn't  all  be  wonderin'  if  we 
was  goin'  to  work  for  a  squaw  outfit.  It'll  be  a  relief  when 
this  lady  lands  in  our  midst.  Mebby  there'll  be  less  specu- 
latin'  and  more  work  done." 

"  You're  right,"  assented  Dad,  and  pulled  at  his  mus- 
tache.    "  There's  a  lot  to  do." 

Tom  Beck  began  to  whistle  softly  and  the  older  man 
glanced  sideways  at  him  uneasily;  then  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  road. 

"  I'll  bet  two  bit,"  volunteered  Two-Bits,  **  that  she's 
as  homely  as  Tom  claims  I  am  an'  about  as  pleasant  as  a 
hod  full  of  bumble  bees." 

No  one  demonstrated  interest  in  his  ofTer  and,  as  though 
he  had  not  even  heard  it,  Beck  said : 

*'  Seems  to  me  there's  been  a  lot  goin'  on  lately,  Dad. 
Or  did  you  mean  there  was  a  lot. more  to  do?" 


THE  NEW  BOSS  3 

*'  I  don't  remember  such  awful  activity,"  the  other  re- 
plied.    *' 'Course,  there's  been — " 

"  Nobody  ever  located  those  four  mares  an'  their  colts, 
did  they?  And  the  last  we  heard  about  that  bunch  of 
white  faces  they  was  headed  towards  Utah  with  a  shod 
horse  trailing  'em." 

Hepburn  changed  what  started  as  an  impatient  expos- 
tulation into  a  sharp  sigh  and  relieved  himself  by  stabbing 
a  spur  into  the  hard  ground. 

*'  Yes,  there  has  been  stealin',"  he  admitted.  "  There's 
been  a  lot  of  it.  But  who  could  do  anything?  The  old 
man  had  been  slack  for  years  and  in  the  last  months  before 
the  end  he  just  let  go  entire.  He  wouldn't  even  give  any- 
body else  authority  enough  to  have  any  say ;  didn't  even 
have  a  foreman.  That's  why  horses  an'  cattle  have  been 
stole  from  him. 

"  'Course,  there's  been  more  devil  to  pay  since  he  died 
than  v/ent  on  before,  but  when  a  man  leaves  things  in  a 
lawyer's  hands  and  the  lawyer  won't  even  look  in  on  the 
job,  what  you  goin'  to  do?" 

His  manner  was  as  benevolent  as  it  was  deliberate  and 
he  turned  a  paternal  smile  on  Beck. 

"  Let  the  thievin'  go  merrily  on,  I  expect,"  the  other  said, 
giving  the  leather  strips  a  series  of  sturdy  jerks  to  tighten 
the  mesh. 

"  I  expect  you'd  like  to  be  foreman,  wouldn't  you,  Dad?  " 
Two-Bits  asked  innocently,  whereupon  Hepburn  certified 
the  accuracy  of  that  surmisal  by  moving  uneasily.  "  You'd 
make  a  fair  foreman  .  .  .  fair.  Now  Tommy  here,"  he 
continued,  oblivious  of  the  older  man's  discomfiture  and  the 
delighted  smiles  of  the  others,  "  would  make  a  fine  foreman 
if  he'd  only  give  a  damn.  But  he  don't  ...  he  don't.  It's 
too  bad.  Tommy,  you  don't  settle  down  and  amount  to  some- 
thin'.     You're  the  best  hand  in  this  country !  " 

Beck  lifted  his  face  and  sniflfed  loudly. 

"  The  smell  of  your  bouquet  is  about  as  delicate  as  your 
diplomacy,  Two-Bits !  "  he  said. 


4  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Another  pause.  Beck  resumed  his  whistHng  and  Hep- 
burn devoted  his  attention  to  the  road.  Once  he  looked  at 
the  other  from  the  tail  of  his  eye  and  a  flicker  of  ill  temper 
showed  in  his  broad,  grizzled  face. 

"Her  name's  Jane,  ain't  it?"  Two-Bits  was  an  ardent 
conversationalist.  '*  Jane  Hunter !  I  knowed  a  school 
marm  named  Hunter  onct.  She  was  worse  'n  thunder  for 
sourin'  milk. 

"  I'll  bet  — " 

"  Listen ! '' 

Oliver  held  up  his  knife  in  gesture  and  Two-Bits  stopped 
talking.  The  sounds  of  an  approaching  wagon  were  clearly- 
audible. 

"  I'll  bet  it's  the  mail  instead  of  — " 

"  You  lose,"  muttered  Hepburn,  getting  to  his  feet  as  a 
buckboard  swung  around  the  bend. 

*'  An'  she  sure's  come  to  stay !  "  from  Jimmy  as  he  closed 
his  knife  with  an  air  of  finality. 

The  body  of  the  wagon  was  piled  high  with  trunks  and 
bags  and  beside  the  driver  sat  a  very  small  woman.  That 
she  w^as  not  of  the  west,  not  the  sort  of  woman  these  men 
had  been  accustomed  to  deal  with,  was  evident  from  the 
clothes  she  wore,  but  at  least  one  of  them  remarked  that 
she  was  not  wholly  without  the  qualities  essential  to  the 
frontier  for,  when  the  driver  dropped  down  to  open  the 
gate,  he  gave  her  the  reins  to  the  lathered,  excited 
horses  which  had  brought  her  from  the  railroad.  As 
soon  as  the  gate  swung  open  they  sprang  forward,  but 
she  put  her  vv^eight  on  the  reins  and  spoke  with  confident 
authority  and  wrenched  them  back. 

"  Not  exactly  helpless,  anyhow,"  Tom  Beck  said  to  him- 
self. 

He  was  the  only  one  of  the  group  who  did  not  walk 
across  toward  the  cottonwoods  which  sheltered  the  long, 
red  ranch  house  beside  the  creek.  He  sat  there,  braiding  his 
belt,  an  indefinable  half  smile  on  his  face. 

The  girl  —  for  girlishness   was   her  outstanding  quality 


THE  NEW  BOSS  5 

—  jumped  out  unassisted.  Sl.e  looked  about  slowly,  at  the 
house  first  of  all,  then  at  the  low  stable  and  the  corrals  and, 
lastly,  down  the  creek,  on  ehher  side  of  which  the  hills  rose 
sharply,  giving  a  false  appearance  of  narrowness  to  the 
bottoms,  and  her  eyes  rested  for  a  long  moment  on  the 
ridges   far  below,  blue  and  sharp  in  the  cr}'stal  distance. 

She  was  unaware  that  the  driver  was  waiting  for  her 
to  give  further  directions  and  that  the  three  others  had 
come  close  and  stopped,  waiting  for  her  to  notice  them, 
for  she  said  aloud,  as  though  to  herself : 

"  For  a  beginning,  this  is  quite  remarkable  I "  Then 
she  laughed  sharply,  with  a  hard  mirthless  quality,  and 
turned  about.  She  was  genuinely  surprised  to  confront 
the  men ;  evidence  of  this  was  in  her  eyes,  which  were  large 
and  remarkably  blue.     She  smiled  brightly  and  said : 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  I  was  overlooking  any  one !  I  sup- 
pose you  men  belong  here,  on  the  ranch,  and  it's  likely  you've 
been  v/aiting  for  the  new  owner  to  come.  Well,  here  I 
am !  I'm  Jane  Hunter  and  I  want  to  know  who  you  are. 
Now  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

Her  frankness,  that  unhesitating,  assured  manner  of  a 
distinct  tv'pe  of  city-bred  woman,  was  new  but  it  over-rode 
somewhat  the  embarrassment  thev  all  felt. 

"  ]\ly  name  is  Hepburn,  ma'am,"  Dad  said  and  shook 
hands  heavily.     *''  I  hope  you  like  this  place." 

*'  I  know^  I  shall,  Mr.  Hepburn.     And  your  name  ?  " 

"  That's  Jimmy  Oliver,  Miss  Hunter,"  Hepburn  said. 

Two-Bits  had  watched  this  with  growing  confusion  and 
when  she  turned  on  him  her  searching,  straightforward 
glance  his  freckles  became  lost  in  a  pink  suffusion.  He 
swayed  his  body  from  the  hips  and  looked  high  over  her 
head  as  he  offered  a  lim.p  hand. 

I'm  blister  Beal,"  he  said  weakly. 

Don't  you  believe  that !  "  laughed  Hepburn.     '*'  That's 
Two-Bits.     He  ain't  entitled  to  any  frills." 

*'  Two-Bits  it  is !  "  the  girl  cried,  scanning  his  face  in 
amazement  at  its  color  and  contour.     "  I  couldn't  call  vou 


i 


6  THE  LAST  STRAW 

mister,  Two-Bits.     We're  going  to  be  too  good  friends  for 
that ! " 

"  Oh  my  gosh !  "  giggled  the  flustered  cowboy  and  turned 
away,  seeking  refuge  in  the  bunkhouse. 

"  You  talk  about  me  bein'  got  up  by  a  feller  that  draws 
pictures,  Tom,"  he  said  to  Beck.  "  Holy  Tin  Can,  you 
ought  to  see  her !  Why,  this  feller  that  paints  them  girls  for  i 
these  here,  now,  magazines  painted  her !  She  looks  like  f 
she  walked  right  out  of  a  picture,  with  blue  eyes  an'  yeller , 
hair  an'  all  pink  an'  white.  An'  friendly.  ...  Oh  my,  i 
I'll  bet  she  makes  this  outfit  take  notice !  " 

Old  Carlobta,  the  half-breed  Mexican  woman  who  had 
been  housekeeper  at  the  H  C  for  years  had  come  from  the  |' 
house  to  greet  her  new  mistress.     The  trunks   were   car-!j| 
ried  in,  the  buckboard  departed  for  its  twenty-five  mile  trip  ;  li 
back  to  town  and  the  riders  who  had  been  at  work  further 
down  the  creek  straggled  in  to  hear  the  first  tales  of  their  f 
new  boss. 

Conjecture  was  high  as  to  her  plan  of  procedure. 

*'  It  won't  take  long  for  things  to  happen.  You  can 
bank  on  that,"  Jimmy  Oliver  declared.  "  She  ain't  our  kind 
■of  a  woman  an'  the  good  Lord  alone  knows  what  notions 
she'll  have,  but  she'll  get  busy!     She's  that  kind." 

He  was  not  wrong  for  just  as  the  sun  was  drawing  down 
into  the  hills  Carlotta  appeared  at  the  bunkhouse. 

''  Miss  Hunter,  she  want  to  spik  to  Senor  Dad  an'  Beck 
an'  Jimmy  an'  Curtis,"  she  said.  "  Right  away,  quick- 
pronto" 

"  This  must  be  a  mass  meetin'  with  th'  rest  of  us  left 
out,"  Two-Bits  said.  "  I'd  give  a  dollar  to  look  at  her 
again  .  .  .  clost  up.  I'll  bet  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  look 
next  time." 

The  four  men  summoned  went  immediately  to  the  big 
house.  Beck  lagged  a  trifle  and  it  was  certain  from  his 
manner  that  his  curiosity  was  not  greatly  excited.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  amused,  for  his  black  eyes  twinkled  gaily,  but 
as  they  passed  through  the  gate  they  set  their  gaze  on  the 


t 


THE  NEW  BOSS  7 

back  of  Hepburn's  broad  neck  and  a  curious  speculation 
showed  in  them.  ^ 

Jane  Hunter  was  waiting  on  the  veranda  which  ran  the 
length  of  the  ranch  house  and  without  formalities  began  her 
explanation. 

*'  You  all  know  the  situation,  I  believe.  My  uncle  left 
me  this  ranch  and  I  have  come  from  New  York  to  take 
possession.  How  long  I  remain  depends  on  a  number  of 
things,  but  I  find  that  for  the  present  at  least,  I  must  con- 
duct my  own  business.  For  the  last  four  weeks,  since 
the  property  came  to  me,  it  has  been  in  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Alward,  the  attorney  in  town,  I  arrived  yesterday  expect- 
ing to  have  his  help,  but  his  doctor  has  sent  him  into  a  lower 
altitude  because  of  some  heart  difficulty  and  I'm  alone  on 
the  job  with  nothing  to  guide  me  but  a  lengthy  letter  he 
wrote. 

"  I  know  little  about  business  of  any  sort,  I  know  nothing 
at  all  about  ranching,  so  I  have  a  great  deal  to  learn.  I 
do  know  that  the  first  thing  I  need  is  an  actual  head  for 
this  place  and  that  is  why  I  called  you  here :  to  select  a  .  .  . 
a  foreman,  you  call  him? 

"  Mr.  Ahvard  left  word  that  any  one  of  you  four  men 
would  be  competent  and  I'm  going  to  choose  one  of  you  by 
chance :  Understand,  this  is  no  guarantee  to  keep  whoever 
is  chosen  on  the  job  for  any  length  of  time,  but  I  don't  care 
to  take  the  responsibility  of  handling  the  men  myself,  as  my 
uncle  and  as  Mr.  Alward  have  done.  Some  one  must  do 
this  and  until  I  learn  enough  to  know  what  I  want  I  will  be 
dependent  upon  whomever  is  selected." 

She  had  spoken  rapidly,  at  no  loss  for  words,  without  a 
trace  of  hesitation  or  embarrassment,  looking  intently  from 
face  to  face,  studying  the  men  as  she  explained  her  plan, 
but  as  she  paused  her  eyes  were  on  Beck's  eyes  and  their 
gaze  was  arrested  there  a  moment  as  though  it  had  en- 
countered something  not  usu-al. 

"  I  am  going  to  need  all  your  help  and  all  the  suggestions 
that  you  can  give  me," —  with  a  slight  gesture  to  include 


8  THE  LAST  STRAW 

the  four,  though  she  still  looked  straight  at  the  tall  West- 
erner,— "  but  I  feel  that  at  first  there  must  be  system  of 
some  sort,  a  man  at  the  head  of  the  organization.  I'm 
going  to  let  you  draw  straws  for  the  place." 

The  men  stirred  and  looked  at  one  another. 

"  That's  fair  enough,"  said  Dad,  with  just  a  trace  of 
indecision  in  his  voice. 

'*  For  us,"  commented  Curtis,  a  lean,  leathery  man. 

Jane  stooped  and  picked  up  an  oat  straw.  She  broke  off 
four  pieces  and  placed  them  tightly  between  her  thumb  and 
palm. 

"  Now,  draw !  "  she  directed,  with  a  smile,  holding  them 
toward  Curtis.     "  The  lucky  straw   will   be  the  shortest." 

Curtis  silently  selected  one  of  the  bits.  Then  Jimmy 
Oliver  drew  and  the  two  stood  eyeing  the  lots  they  had 
picked.  Hepburn  had  cleared  his  throat  twice  rather 
sharply  when  the  drawing  commenced  and  as  he  stepped 
forward  at  her  gesture  he  manifested  an  eagerness  which 
did  not  quite  harmonize  with  his  usual  deliberation.  He 
drew,  eyed  his  straw  and  glanced  sharply  at  those  held  by 
the  other  two. 

Beck  had  not  moved  forward  with  the  others,  but  stood 
back,  thumbs  hooked  in  his  belt,  his  eyes,  which  were  mildly 
smiling,  still  on  the  girl's  face.  She  looked  at  him  again 
and  saw  there  something  other  than  the  interest  that  ap- 
proached eagerness  which  had  been  evident  in  the  others; 
she  read  another  thing  which  caught  her  attention ;  the  man 
was  laughing  at  her,  she  felt,  laughing  at  her  and  at  the 
entire  performance.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  an  absurdity 
and  as  she  searched  his  expression  again  and  perceived  that 
this  was  no  bucolic  whim  but  the  attitude  of  a  man  whose 
assurance  was  as  stable  as  her  own  the  smile  which  had  been 
on  her  face  faded  a  degree. 

*'  Now  it  is  your  turn  ...  the  last  straw,"  she  said  to 
him. 

Thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  replied  in  an  even,  matter-of- 


it 


THE  NEW  BOSS 

fact  voice,  though  that  annoyiiig  smile  was  still  in  his  eyes, 
"  but  I  guess  you  can  count  me  out." 

She  lowered  the  hand  which  held  the  straw. 

"  You  don't  care  to  draw  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  meant,  ma'am." 

*'And  why  not?" 

She  was  piqued,  without  good  reason,  at  this  refusal. 

"  In  the  first  place,  ma'am,  I've  never  taken  a  chance  in 
my  life,  if  I  knew  it.  I've  tried  to  arrange  so  I  wouldn't 
have  to.     I'm  a  poor  gambler." 

A  suggestion  of  a  flush  crept  into  the  girl's  cheeks,  for, 
though  his  manner  was  all  frankness,  he  gave  the  impression 
that  this  was  not  his  reason,  or,  at  least,  not  his  best  reason ; 
he  seemed,  in  a  subtle  manner,  to  be  poking  fun  at  her. 
**  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "  pickin'  at  pieces  of  straw  don't 
seem  like  a  good  way  to  pick  men." 

"  You  understand  why  it  is  being  done  that  way  ?  '^ 
Though  her  manner  did  not  betray  it,  she  felt  as  though  she 
were  on  the  defensive. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  I  wasn't  reflecting  on  you  especially.  I 
was  thinkin'  about  your  lawyer.  But  you  won't  be  so  very 
mad,  if  I  ain't  crazy  to  take  a  chance,  will  you?  If  any- 
body wants  to  know  whether  I  can  hold  a  job  or  not,  I'd 
sooner  have  'em  ask  about  me  or  try  me;  when  it  comes  to 
drawing  lots  I'll  have  to  be  counted  out." 

His  eyes  had  been  squarely  on  hers  throughout  and  when 
he  ceased  speaking  they  still  clung.  Beyond  a  doubt,  she 
reasoned,  that  flicker  in  them  was  amusement  and  yet  she 
felt  no  resentment  towards  him;  was  not  even  annoyed  as 
she  had  been  at  his  first  refusal.  It  was  interesting;  it 
impressed  her  with  a  diflference  between  him  and  the  three 
who  had  drawn.  For  a  moment  she  was  impelled  to  argue ; 
she  wanted  that  man  to  help  her  more  than  she  wanted  to 
retain  her  poise  .  .  .  just  an  instant. 

Abruptly  she  turned  to  the  others. 

"  Very  well,  we  will  see  who  did  win." 


lo  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  four  drew  close  together  and  measured. 

"  Mr.  Hepburn's  is  the  shortest!"  she  cried;  then  looked 
at  the  fourth  straw  she  still  held.  It  was  shorter  by  half 
an  inch. 

"  You  would  have  drawn  well,"  she  said  to  Beck,  hold- 
ing it  up. 

*•  So  it  seems,  ma'am,"  he  answered,  but  she  noticed  that 
he  did  not  look  at  her.  His  eyes  were  on  the  new  fore- 
man's face,  which  was  flushed  with  the  depressions  beneath 
the  eyes  puffed  a  bit.  He  was  nervously  breaking  to  shreds 
the  straw  which  had  won  the  place  but  about  him  was  a 
bearing  of  unmistakable  elation  and  something  in  his  eyes, 
which  were  small,  and  about  his  chin  suggested  greed.  .  .  . 

The  four  started  away  and  Jane  stood  watching  them. 
Four!  And  one  of  them  was  to  be  her  deputy  in  life's 
first  —  and  perhaps  life's  saving  —  adventure.  But  she 
did  not  watch  him,  in  fact,  had  no  thought  for  him.  Her 
eyes  followed  Tom  Beck  until  he  was  out  of  sight  and  as 
she  turned  to  enter  the  house  she  said: 

"  But  he  looks  as  though  he  might  take  a  .  .  .  long 
chance.  ..." 


CHAPTER  II 

MY   ADVICE,    ma'am 

HE  stood  on  a  bearskin  rug  before  the  blazing  fire,  hat 
in  hand,  boots  poHshed,  tall  and  trim  with  his  hand- 
some head  bowed  just  a  trifle.  The  blazing  logs  gave  the 
only  light  to  the  place  and  his  bronzed  face  was  burnished 
by  their  reflection. 

"  You  sent  for  me  ?  "  he  asked  as  she  came  into  the  room. 

She  advanced  from  the  shadows  and  for  a  moment  did  not 
reply.  She  felt  that  he  was  taking  her  in  from  her  crown 
of  light  hair,  down  through  the  smart,  high-collared  waist 
to  the  short,  scant  skirt  which  showed  her  silken  clad  ankles 
and  the  modish  shoes.  His  eyes  rested  on  those  shoes.  He 
was  thinking  that  they  were  wonderfully  plain  for  a  city 
girl  to  wear,  at  kast  the  sort  of  city  girl  he  had  ever  known. 
But  they  had  a  simplicity  which  he  thought  went  well  with 
her  manner. 

"  I  had  planned  on  talking  to  Mr.  Hepburn  this  evening," 
she  said.  '*  I  want  to  get  all  the  information  and  all  the  ad- 
vice I  can  from  the  start.  Carlotta  said  he  had  gone  away, 
so,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  you  wouldn't  gamble  with  me 
this  afternoon,  I  sent  for  you.  I  think  that  you  can  tell 
me  many  things  I  need  to  know.  You  don't  mind  my  ask- 
ing you,  do  you?  You  don't  feel  that  you'd  be  ...  be 
taking  a  chance,  talking  to  me  ?  " 

She  took  his  hat. 

"  Sit  down,"  motioning  to  the  davenport  before  the  fire. 
"  Would  you  like  to  start  with  a  drink  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  eyeing  her  calculatingly. 

*'  There's  not  much  here.     I  slipped  one  bottle  of  V"er- 

II 


12  THE  LAST  STRAW 

mouth  in  a  trunk.  I'll  have  to  try  to  mix  a  cocktail  in  a 
tumbler  and  there  isn't  any  ice.  It's  likely  to  be  a  bad  cock- 
tail, but  maybe  it  will  help  us  talk." 

She  walked  down  the  long  room  toward  the  dining  table 
and  sideboard  at  the  far  end  and  he  heard  glass  clinking 
and  liquids  gurgling  as  he  sat  looking  about  with  that  small 
part  of  a  smile  on  his  features.  All  along  the  walls  were 
books  and  above  the  cases  hung  trophies  of  the  country: 
heads  of  deer  and  elk,  a  pelt  of  a  mountain  lion  and  of  a 
bobcat,  a  pair  of  magnificent  sheep's  horns  and  a  stuffed 
eagle.  In  the  low  windows  were  boxes  of  geraniums,  Car- 
lotta's  pride. 

"  Here  you  are,"  she  said  as  she  returned,  holding  one  of 
the  two  glasses  toward  Beck,  who  rose  to  accept  it.  *'  My 
imcle  left  a  very  small  stock  of  drinks,  but  as  soon  as  I  know 
what  I'm  about  I'll  try  to  remedy  that  defect  in  an  other- 
wise splendid  establishment."  Her  manner  was  terse, 
brisk,  open  and  her  eyes  met  another's  directly  when  she 
talked. 

She  lifted  her  glass  to  her  chin's  level  and  smiled  at  him. 

"  To  the  future !  "  she  said. 

His  question  was  adroitly  timed  for  she  had  just  given 
the  glass  a  slight  toss  and  was  already  carrying  its  rim  to- 
ward her  lips  when  his  words  checked  the  movement. 

"  I  take  it,  ma'am,  that  you'll  want  this  liquor  to  go  where 
it'll  do  your  future  the  most  good?" 

He  looked  from  her  down  to  the  cocktail  he  held  and 
moved  the  glass  in  a  quick  little  circle  to  set  the  yellow  liquid 
swirling.  His  voice  had  been  quite  casual,  but  when  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  meet  her  inquiring  look  the  last  of  a 
twinkle  was  giving  way  to  gravity. 

"You  mean?  .  .  ." 

"  Just  about  what  I  said  :  that  you'd  like  to  have  this  brace 
of  drinks  do  your  future  some  good?" 

"  Why,  yes,  that  was  my  intention.     Why  ?  " 

"  You  called  me  down  here  to  get  a  little  advice.  Let's 
commence  here." 


MY  ADVICE,  MA'AM  13 

He  reached  out  for  her  gkss  in  a  manner  which  was  at 
once  gentle  and  dominating,  presumptuous  but  unoffending, 
with  a  measure  of  certainty;  still,  by  his  face,  she  might  have 
told  that  he  was  experimenting  with  her,  not  just  sure  of 
how  she  would  react,  not,  perhaps,  caring  a  great  deal.  His 
fingers  closed  on  her  glass  and  she  yielded  with  half  laugh- 
ing, half  protesting  astonishment.  He  took  both  glasses 
in  one  hand,  moved  deliberately  toward  the  hearth  and 
tossed  their  contents  into  the  flames.  He  then  set  the  empty 
tumblers  on  the  mantel  and  turned  about  with  a  questioning 
smile  on  his  lips. 

The  sharp,  slowly  dwihdling  hiss  of  quenched  flame  which 
followed  completely  died  out  before  she  spoke.  Color  had 
leaped  into  her  cheeks  and  ebbed  as  quickly;  her  lips  had 
shut  in  a  tight  line  and  for  a  fraction  of  time  it  was  as 
though  she  would  angrily  demand  explanation. 

But  she  said  evenly  enough :     ''  I  don't  understand  that." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  show  how  mad  it  made  you,"  he 
replied. 

''  But  why.  .  .  .  What  made  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  You  said,  you  know,  that  you  wanted  that  liquor  to  go 
where  it'd  help  your  future.  I  thought  the  fire  was  about 
the  best  place  for  it  under  the  circumstances." 

"  But  why  di  — " 

"And  I  believed  you  when  you  said  you  had- a  lot  to 
learn  and  that  you  called  me  down  to  start  the  job.  You 
have  a  way  of  makin'  people  think  you  mean  what  you  say. 
I'm  mighty  glad  to  give  you  advice ;  I  thought  this  was  a 
good  way  to  begin." 

Jane  gave  a  queer  laugh  and  sat  down,  looking  blankly 
into  the  fire.  She  turned  her  face  after  a  moment  and 
found  him  studying  her  as  he  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the 
davenport. 

"  I  understand  your  meaning,"  she  said,  "  but  you're  as 
startling  in  your  actions  as  you  must  be  in  your  reasoning. 
You  didn't  object  to  the  idea  of  a  drink;  I  didn't  think  many 
of  you  people  did  out  here." 


14  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  We  don't,  ma'am.     Most  of  us  drink  our  share.     I  do." 

"  But  just  now  you  threw  yours  away." 

"  You  see,  I  was  bound  to  throw  yours  away.  It  wouldn't 
have  been  poHte,  would  it,  for  me  to  drink  and  not  let  you  ?  " 
His  smile  mocked  her.  *'  Besides,"  dryly  — "  I  ain't  much 
on  these  fancy  drinks.  You  warned  me  that  it  wouldn't  be 
so  very  good  anyhow." 

She  stared  at  him  in  perplexity. 

"You  have  no  scruples  against  drinking?" 

"Moderate  drinking;  no." 

"Then  why  did  you  take  this  liberty  with  me?" — sug- 
gesting indignation. 

"  You  see,  you're  a  woman.  You  guessed  a  minute  ago 
that  there  wasn't  much  objection  to  hard  liquor  here.  I 
told  you  you  were  right ;  most  of  us  boys  drink,  but  we  can 
afford  to  and  you  can't."  His  manner  was  light,  almost  to 
the  degree  of  banter,  as  if  that  which  had  aroused  her  was 
the  simplest  of  matters. 

"  A  (man  in  this  country  don't  build  a  reputation  on  many 
things.  So  long  as  he's  honest,  he  gets  along  pretty  well. 
But  a  woman:  that's  different.  She  has  to  make  people 
know  she's  right  in  everything  she  does." 

An  occasional  drink  will  make  her  less  right?  " 
Not  a  bit  less,  ma'am,  but  it  won't  help  other  folks  to 
know  she's  right.  And  that's  all  that  counts.  Everybody, 
man  or  woman,  who  comes  into  the  west  has  to  make  or 
break  by  what  he  does  here;  nothin'  that  has  been,  good  or 
bad,  matters.  They  commence  from  the  bottom  again  and 
by  what  they  do  people  judge  them. 

"  Reputation  is  the  first  thing  you've  got  to  make  for  your- 
self. Everybody  is  watchin'  you :  the  boys  here  on  the 
ranch,  the  neighbors  down  creek,  the  people  in  town. 
You've  got  to  show  that  you're  honest,  that  you've  got 
courage ;  if  you  were  a  man  it  could  stop  there,  but  you're 
a  woman  an'  that  makes  it  .  .  . 

"  Well,  men  out  here  expect  things  from  a  woman  that  I 
guess  men  in  cities  don't  think  so  much  about  and  you  might 


MY  ADVICE,  MA'AM  15 

as  well  know  now  as  any  time  that  men  in  this  country  don't 
like  to  see  a  woman  do  some  of  the  things  they  do.  We 
ain't  as  polite  as  some ;  we  ain't  as  gentle,  when  it's  neces- 
sary to  act  quick  and  for  sure,  but  maybe  we  make  up  for 
some  of  our  roughness  in  the  idea  we  have  of  women.  We 
think  a  good  woman  is  about  as  fine  a  thing  as  God  has 
made,  ma'am,  and  we  have  our  ideas  of  goodness. 

"  You  see,  you've  got  to  handle  men ;  you've  got  to  have 
their  respect  and  you  won't  have  their  respect  if  you  don't 
understand  how  they  think,  and  then  act  accordingly. 

"  Besides,  you're  on  a  job  that's  going  to  take  all  the 
brains  and  grit  and  strength  you've  got.  Booze  never  helped 
anybody  on  a  job  like  that.  If  you  Vv^as  a  man  and  your 
job  was  just  ridin'  after  cattle  it'd  be  different.  But  neither 
one  is  the  case.  ,  .  . 

**  My  advice,  ma'am !  " 

She  watched  his  face  a  moment  before  saying: 

"  As  long  as  I  can  remember,  women  about  me  have  been 
drinking.  Ever  since  I  grew  up  I've  been  drinking.  I've 
never  taken  too  much ;  I've  never  needed  it ;  I've  done  it  be- 
cause .  .  .  because  it  was  being  done." 

*'  Yeah.  W>11,  it  ain't  done  here.  It's  a  new  country 
and  a  new  life  for  you  and  one  of  the  first  things  you've  got 
to  learn  is  how  to  get  on  with  people.  Maybe  back  east 
some  of  the  folks  wouldn't  respect  you  if  you  didn't  drink. 
There  are  folks  like  that,  who  think  it's  smart  to  do  certain 
things,  and  maybe  there  are  a  lot  of  'em  like  you,  who  don't 
need  it,  don't  even  want  it,  but  they  do  it  because  of  their 
reputations. 

"  You  see,  it's  the  same  rule  workin'  backwards  out  here." 

The  girl  moved  to  face  the  fire  again.  She  scowled  a 
trifle  and  the  glow  on  her  cheeks  was  not  wholly  due  to  the 
reflection  of  the  blazing  logs. 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  there  might  be  people  who 
gave  little  attention  to  what  otliers  think  of  them  ?  "  she 
asked  rather  coldly. 

*'  Sure  thing!     There  are  lots  like  that." 


i6  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  I  can  see  where,  if  a  stranger  were  to  plan  to  stay  in  a 
place  like  this  for  long  it  might  be  expedient  to  ...  to 
cater  to  the  community  morals.  I  don't  intend  to  be  a  per- 
manent resident.  That  is,  I  won't  if  I  can  help  it.  I  don't 
expect  that  I'd  ever  come  up  to  your  notion  of  a  worthy 
woman," —  a  bitterness  creeping  into  the  voice  — "  so  per- 
haps it  is  fortunate  that  I  look  on  this  ranch  only  as  means 
to  an  end." 

"  You  mean,  money,  ma'am  ?  "  he  asked,  and  when  she  did 
not  reply  at  once  he  went  on :  *'  Folks  generally  come  west 
for  one  of  three  reasons :  money  or  health  or  because  they 
like  the  country.  I  take  it  your  health's  all  right  .  .  .  and 
that  you  ain't  just  struck  with  the  country." 

She  made  a  slight  grimace  and  sat  forward,  elbows  on 
knees. 

"  Yes,  money !  "  she  said  under  her  breath.  "  I  came  here 
to  get  it.  I'm  going  to."  She  looked  up  at  him  quickly, 
eyebrows  arched  in  a  somewhat  defiant  query,  and,  after  a 
pause,  went  on  :     "  You  don't  seem  to  approve  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  candidly,  that  smile  only  half  hidden  in  his 
eyes. 

"  And  why  not  ?  What  else  is  there  out  here  for  a  woman 
like  me  ?  " 

"  That's  a  hard  question.  One  thing  she  might  find  is 
herself,  for  instance." 

She  gave  a  startled  laugh  and  asked : 

"Herself?" 

"  The  same,  ma'am.  I  s'pose  there  are  folks  who  live  for 
money  and  what  it'll  bring  'em.  Cities  must  be  full  of  'em, 
or  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  cities.  Folks  do  work  pretty 
hard  to  make  money  an'  pile  it  up,  but  I've  never  seen  any 
of  'em  that  got  to  be  very  successful  in  other  ways.  The 
more  money  they  made  the  more  they  seemed  to  depend  on 
makin'  money  to  attract  attention.  They  don't  seem  to  think 
that  it  ain't  what  a  man  does  that  really  counts  so  much  as 
what  he  is.     The  same  goes  for  a  woman." 

She  sat  back,  brows  drawn  together. 


MY  ADVICE,  MA'AM  17 

"  Are  you  trying  to  preach  to  me  ?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

Beck  laughed  Hghtly,  as  though  that  obvious  hurting  of 
her  pride  delighted  him, 

"  N'Ot  just,  ma'am.  Preachers  hammer  away  at  folks 
about  sin  and  such.  I  hadn't  thought  about  you  as  a  sinner ; 
I  was  just  considerin'  you  and  your  job;  and  what  you  say 
brought  you  here. 

"  It's  none  of  my  business  what  you  want  to  get  out  of 
life.  You  told  me  what  you  wanted  and  asked  me  if  I 
didn't  like  it,  and  I  don't.     That's  all. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  everybody  who's  alive  ought  to 
want  to  get  the  best  out  of  himself  and  I  don't  think  you 
can  do  it  by  just  try  in'  to  herd  dollars."  He  divined  in  her 
retort  what  she  was  withholding.  "  Sure,  I'm  only  an 
ordinary  cowpuncher,  ma'am.  I  don't  seem  to  care  much 
about  any  kind  of  success  but  I'm  afflicted  like  everybody 
else:  I'm  a  human  being,  and  every  one  of  us  likes  to  pick 
on  the  faults  he  finds  in  others  that  correspond  to  his  own 
faults.  .  .  . 

"  You  see,  you've  got  a  big  chance  here.  You've  got  a 
chance  to  be  somebody.  This  is  one  of  the  biggest  outfits  in 
this  state.  All  this  country  out  here  has  been  this  outfit's 
range  for  years.  You  ain't  got  a  neighbor  in  miles  because 
you  amount  to  so  much.  Away  down  Coyote  Creek,  'most 
thirty  miles,  is  Riley's  ranch,  an'  close  by  him  is  Hewitt's. 
Off  west  an'  south  is  Pat  Webb's  who,  far  as  you're  con- 
cerned, might  better  be  a  good  deal  further  west,"  dryly. 

"  Your  uncle  an'  Riley  was  the  first  in  here.  Why, 
ma'am,  they  had  to  fight  Indians  to  protect  their  cattle ! 
They  made  names  for  'emselves.  They  made  money,  too, 
or  at  least  your  uncle  did,  but  he  wasn't  respected  just  be- 
cause he  made  money.  Men  liked  him  because  he  did 
things. 

*'  Men  will  like  you  if  you  do  things,  ma'am.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps you'll  like  yourself  better,  too." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  their  gazes  were  for  the  mo- 
ment very  serious.     Jane  Hunter  was  meeting  with  a  new 


i8  THE  LAST  STRAW 

sense  of  values ;  Tom  Beck  had  sensed  a  faint  recklessness, 
a  despair,  about  her  and,  behind  all  his  mockery  and  light- 
ness, was  a  warm  heart.  Then  she  terminated  the  interval 
of  silence  by  saying  rather  impatiently : 

"  That's  all  very  interesting,  but  what  you  said  about  my 
needing  my  brains  and  my  grit  is  of  greater  interest.  Do 
you  mean  that  it's  just  a  big  job  naturally  or  that  there  are 
complications  ?  " 

"Both." 

"How  much  of  both?" 

Beck  shoved  a  hand  into  his  pocket  and  gave  his  head  a 
skeptical  twist. 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen.  It's  a  man's  job  to  run  this 
place  under  favorable  conditions.  Your  uncle.  Colonel 
Hunter,  sort  of  got  shiftless  in  the  last  years.  He  let  things 
slide.  I  don't  know  about  debts  and  such,  but  I  suspect 
there  are  some.  There  are  other  things,  though.  You've 
got  some  envious  neighbors  .  .  .  and  some  that  ain't  particu- 
lar how  they  make  their  money," —  with  just  a  shade  of 
emphasis  on  the  last. 

"You  mean  that  they  steal?" 

"  Plentv,  ma'am." 

"  But  how  ?    Who  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  it  seems  to  be  gettin'  quite  the  custom 
here  to  get  rich  ofif  the  H  C  .  .  .  especially  since  the  place 
changed  owners." 

''Why  at  that  particular  time?" 

"  Since  it  got  noised  about  that  a  woman  was  goin'  to  own 
it  there's  been  a  lively  interest  in  crime.  I  told  you  that 
your  uncle  was  a  man  who  was  respected  a  lot.  Some 
feared  him,  too." 

"  And  they  won't  respect  me  because  I'm  a  woman  ?  " 

"That's  about  it.  It's  believed,  ma'am,  that  a  woman, 
'specially  an  Eastern  woman,  can't  make  a  go  of  it  out  here, 
so  what's  the  use  of  givin'  her  a  fair  show  ? " 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak  again  but  she  did  not  and 
he  added  with  that  experimental  manner: 


MY  ADVICE,  MA'AM  19 

"  So,  maybe,  if  you  want  to  make  money,  it'd  be  well  to 
find  a  buyer.  Maybe  if  you  was  to  take  an  interest  in  this 
ranch  and  did  want  to  be  .  .  .  to  stay  in  this  country,  you 
couldn't  make  it  go." 

"  Do  you  think  that's  impossible  ?  " 

He  waited  a  moment  before  saying: 
I   don't   know.     You   don't   make   a   very   good   start, 


ma  am. 


At  least  you  are  deliciously  frank !  " 

"  It  pays ;  it  does  away  with  misunderstandings.  I 
wouldn't  want  you  to  think  —  since  you've  asked  ^me  —  that 
I  believed  you  could  make  a  go  of  this  ranch,  even  if  you 
wanted  to." 

That  stung  her  sharply ;  she  drew  her  breath  in  with  a 
slight  sound  and  leaned  quickly  forward  as  if  ready  to  de- 
nounce his  skepticism,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

She  only  arose  impatiently  and  walked  to  the  mantel. 

"  Do  you  smoke  ?  "  she  asked,  holding  out  a  box  of  ciga- 
rettes. 

"  Yes ;  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

In  the  word  was  a  clear  defiance.  She  struck  a  match 
and  held  it  towards  him;  then  lighted  her  own  cigarette. 

Seated  again,  she  stared  into  the  fire,  smoking  slowly,  but 
as  his  eyes  remained  fast  on  her  the  color  crept  upward  into 
her  cheeks,  higher  and  brighter  until  she  turned  to  meet 
the  gaze  that  was  on  her  and  with  a  bite  to  the  words  asked : 

"You  don't  approve  of  this,  either?" 

*'  Why,  ma'am,  I  like  to  smoke." 

"  But  you  stare  at  me  as  though  I  were  committing  a 
crime." 

"  You  see,  you're  the  first  good  white  woman  I've  ever 
seen  smoke." 

"  You  — "  She  checked  the  question,  looked  at  him  and 
then  eyed  her  cigarette  critically. 

I  don't  suppose  women  out  here  do  smoke,  do  they?  " 
No,  ma'am ;  not  much." 


(I 


20  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  And  you  men  ?  You  men  who  drink  and  smoke  don't 
want  the  women  to  enjoy  the  same  privilege?" 

'*  That  appears  about  it." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  rose  and  looked  down  upon  her. 
One  tendril  of  her  golden  hair,  like  silk  in  texture,  caressed 
her  fine-grained  cheek,  delicately  contrasted  against  its  allur- 
ing color.  He  would  have  liked  to  press  it  closer  to  the 
skin  with  his  fingers  .  .  .  quite  gently.     But  he  said : 

"  I  guess  you  and  I  don't  understand  each  other  very  well, 
and,  if  we  don't,  it  ain't  any  use  in  our  talking  further.  As 
for  advisin'  you  about  your  business  .  .  ." 

Jane  blew  on  her  ash. 

"  I  just  tried  to  show  you  how  to  start  right,  accordin'  to 
my  notion,  and  if  it  made  you  mad  I'm  sorry. 

*'  After  all,  it  don't  make  so  much  difference  what  other 
folks  think  of  us.  It's  what  we  think  of  ourselves  that 
counts  most,  but  none  of  us  can  get  clear  away  from  the 
other  hombre's  ideas." 

That  twinkle  crept  back  in  to  his  eyes.  Her  little  frame 
fairly  bristled  independence  and  self-sufficiency;  it  was  in 
the  pert  set  of  her  head,  the  poise  of  her  square  shoulders, 
the  languid  swinging  of  one  small  foot. 

"  I  think  that  you  think  a  lot  of  yourself,  ma'am.  That's 
more  'n  most  folks  can  say." 

She  rose  as  he  reached  for  his  hat. 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  your  opinion  on  the  proportions  of  my 
job,"  she  said  briefly,  "  and  for  that  I  am  glad  that  you 
came  in." 

The  oblique  rebuke  could  not  be  misunderstood. 

"  I'm  complimented,"  he  replied,  and,  although  she  looked 
frankly  and  impersonally  up  at  him,  she  had  a  quick  fear 
that  despite  her  assurance  this  man  was  leaving  her  with  a 
strange  feeling  of  inferiority,  and  when  he  went  through  the 
doorway  into  the  night  she  was  quite  certain  he  was  smiling 
merrily. 

She  stood  until  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  dwindled,  then 
turned  to  the  table  and  stood  idly  caressing  the  wood.     Her 


MY  ADVICE,  MA'AM  21 

fingers  encountered  something  v/hich  she  picked  up  and  ex- 
amined, at  first  abstractedly.  It  was  a  bit  of  straw,  the  one 
Beck  had  refused  and,  which  drawn,  would  have  made  him 
her  right  hand  man.  She  moved  towards  the  fire  to  toss  it 
into  the  flames ;  checked  herself  and,  instead,  put  it  between 
the  covers  of  a  book  which  lay  handy. 

She  stood  on  the  stone  hearth  thinking  of  what  he  had 
said,  cigarette  smoke  curling  up  her  small  hand  and  delicate 
wrist.  The  offended  feeling  subsided  and,  wonderingly,  she 
tried  to  restimulate  it;  the  sensation  would  not  return!  Of 
a  sudden  she  felt  small  and  weak  and  of  little  consequence. 

So  he  doubted,  even,  that  she  could  be  herself ! 

She  dropped  the  stub  of  her  cigarette  into  the  fire  and, 
frowning,  reached  for  another,  and  tapped  its  end  on  the 
mantel.  She  struck  a  match  and  put  the  white  cylinder  to 
her  lips.  Then,  quite  slowly,  she  waved  the  glare  out  and 
tossed  the  tiny  stick  into  the  coals.  With  a  movement  which 
was  so  deliberate  that  it  was  almost  weary  she  dropped  the 
unlighted  cigarette  after  it.  Slight  as  was  the  gesture  there 
was  in  it  something  of  finality. 

The  coals  were  dimmed  with  ash  before  she  moved  to 
walk  slowly  to  the  window  and  look  out.  It  was  cold  and 
still. 

A  movement  among  the  cottonwoods  attracted  her.  A 
man  was  walking  there,  slowly,  as  one  on  patrol.  She 
watched  him  go  the  length  of  the  row  of  trees ;  then  fol- 
lowed his  slow  progress  back,  saw  him  stand  watching  the 
house  a  moment  before  he  'moved  on  towards  the  bunk- 
house. 

She  lay  awake  for  hours  that  night,  partly  from  a  helpless 
rage  and,  later,  a  rare  thrill,  a  hope,  perhaps,  kept  sleep 
from  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE   NESTER  —  AND   ANOTHER 


it 


*  *  ^wJOW  about  the  men,  Miss  Hunter,"  said  Hepburn. 
-*-^  When  he  reached  this  subject  he  looked  through 
the  deep  window  far  down  the  creek  and  had  Jane  known 
him  better  she  might  have  seen  hesitancy  with  his  deHbera- 
tion,  as  though  he  approached  the  subject  reluctantly. 
How  many  will  you  need  ?  "  she  asked. 
Not  many  yet.  Four  besides  myself.  There's  seven 
here  now.  That  is,  there'll  be  six,  because  one  is  pullin' 
out  this  mornin'  of  his  own  accord.  We'll  need  more  when 
the  round-up  starts,  but  until  then  —  about  June  —  we  can 
get  along.     The  fewer  the  better." 

"  That  will  be  largely  up  to  you.  Of  course,  I  will  be 
consulted." 

"  I  guess  we'll  keep  Curtis  and  Oliver.  Then  there's 
Two-Bits  — " 

''  Oh,  keep  Two-Bits  by  all  means !  "  she  laughed.  "  I'm 
in  love  with  him  already !  " 

"  All  right,  we'll  keep  Two-Bits.  As  for  the  other,  there's 
a  chance  to  choose  because — " 

"  Beck ;  how  about  him  ?  " 

Her  manner  was  a  bit  too  casual  and  she  folded  a  sheet 
of  memoranda  with  minute  care  before  her  foreman,  who 
eyed  her  sharply,  replied: 

''  He's  settled  that  for  himself,  I  guess.  He  was  packin* 
his  war  bag  when  I  come  down  here.  I  told  him  to  come  to 
the  house  for  his  time." 

"  You  mean  he's  leaving?  " 

Hepburn  nodded. 

"Why?" 

'*  Well,  I  guess  his  nose  is  out  of  joint  at  not  bein'  picked 
for  foreman." 

22 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        23 

"  But  he  wouldn't  even  draw.  Said  he  wouldn't  take  a 
chance ! " 

"  I  know.  He  appeared  not  to  give  a  hang  for  the  job, 
but  he's  a  funny  man.  He  an'  I  never  got  along  any  too 
well.     We  don't  hitch," 

"  Is  he  a  good  worker  ?  " 

'*  If  he  wants  to  be.  He  don't  say  much,  but  he  al- 
ways .  .  .  Why,  he  always  seems  to  be  laughin'  at  every- 
body and  everything." 

''  I  think  /  could  persuade  him  to  want  to  work  for  me." 

"  Perhaps.  But  then,  too,  he's  hot  tempered.  In  kind  of 
bad  with  some  of  the  boys  over  trouble  he's  had." 

"  What  trouble  ?  " 

"  Why,  principally  because  he  beat  up  a  man  —  Sam  Mc- 
Kee  —  on  the  beef  ride  last  fall." 

"What  for?" 

''  Well  ...  He  thought  this  man  was  a  little  rough  with 
his  horse." 

"  And  he  whipped  him  because  he  had  abused  a  horse  ? 
That,  it  seems  to  me,  isn't  much  against  him." 

"  No ;  maybe  not.  He  beat  him  a  sight  worse  than  he 
beat  his  horse,"  he  explained,  moving  uneasily.  "  Anyhow, 
he's  settled  that.     Here  he  comes  now,  after  his  time." 

Jane  stepped  nearer  the  window.  Beck  approached, 
whistling  softly.  He  wore  leather  chaps  with  a  leather 
fringe  and  great,  silver  conchos.  A  revolver  swung  at  his 
hip.  His  movements  were  easy  and  graceful.  She  opened 
the  door  and,  seeing  her,  he  removed  his  hat. 

''  I've  come  for  my  time,  ma'am,"  he  explained. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?  Maybe  you're  not  going  to  go 
just  yet." 

He  entered  and  she  thought  that  as  he  glanced  at  Hep- 
burn, who  did  not  look  up,  his  eyes  danced  with  a  flicker 
of  delight. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  can  stay,  ma'am.  I  told  your  fore- 
man a  little  while  ago  that  I'd  be  going.  Somebody's  got 
o  go,  and  it  may  as  well  be  one  as  another." 


24  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Don't  you  think  my  wishes  should  be  consulted  ?  "  she 
asked. 

He  twirled  his  hat,  looking  at  her  with  a  half  smile. 

"  This  is  your  outfit,  ma'am.  I  should  think  your  wishes 
ought  to  go,  but  it  won't  do  for  you  to  start  in  with  more 
trouble  than's  necessary." 

"  But  if  I  want  you  and  Mr.  Hepburn  wants  you,  where 
is  the  chance  for  trouble  ?  You  do  want  him,  don't  you,  Mr. 
Hepburn  ?  " 

The  older  man  looked  up  with  a  forced  grin. 

"  Bless  you,  Miss  Hunter,  yes !  Why,  Tom,  the  only 
reason  I  thought  we  might  as  well  part  was  because  I  figured 
you'd  be  discontented  here." 

"  Now !  You  see,  your  employer  wants  you  and  your 
foreman  wants  you.  What  more  can  you  ask  ?  "  the  girl 
exclaimed,  facing  Beck. 

"  Nothin'  much,  of  course,  unless  what  I  think  about  it 
might  matter." 

Her  enthusiasm  ebbed  and  she  looked  at  him,  clearly 
troubled. 

''  I  am  not  urging  you  to  stay  because  I  need  one  more 
man.  It  is  essential  to  have  men  I  can  trust.  I  can  trust 
you.  I  need  you.  I  .  .  .  I'm  quite  alone,  you  know,  and 
I  have  decided  to  stay  ...  if  I  can  stay." 

She  flushed  ever  so  slightly  at  the  indefinable  change  in  his 
eyes. 

"  You  told  me  last  night  some  of  the  things  I  must  do, 
which  I  can't  do  wholly  alone.  I  should  like  very  much  to 
have  you  stay," —  ending  with  a  girlish  simplicity  quite  un- 
like her  usual  manner. 

"  Maybe  my  advice  and  help  ain't  what  you'd  call  good," 
he  said. 

"  I  thought  it  over  when  you  had  gone,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  good  advice."  Her  eyes 
remained  on  his,  splendidly  frank. 

**  Some  of  us  are  apt  to  be  disconcerted  when  we  listen  to 
new  things;  and,  again,  when  we  know  that  they  come  sin 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER       25 

cerely  and  our  pride  quits  hurting  we're  inclined,  perhaps, 
to  take  a  new  point  of  view.     I  have,  on  some  things." 

His  face  sobered  in  the  rare  way  it  had  and  he  said : 

''Tm  mighty  glad." 

Hepburn  had  watched  them  closely,  not  understanding, 
and  in  his  usually  amiable  face  was  a  cunning  speculation. 

"  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  take  a  chance  against  your  better 
judgment.  If  you  must  move  on,  I'm  sorry.  But  ...  I 
need  you." 

With  those  three  words  she  had  ended :  I  need  you.  But 
in  them  was  a  plea,  frank,  unabashed,  and  her  eyes  were 
filled  with  it  and  as  he  stood  looking  down  at  his  hat,  evi- 
dently undecided,  she  lifted  one  hand  in  appeal  and  spoke 
again  in  a  tone  that  was  low  and  sweet: 

"Won't  you,  please?" 

He  nodded  and  said : 

"  I'll  stay." 

"  I'm  so  glad  !  "  she  cried.  "  And  you're  glad,  aren't  you, 
Mr.  Hepburn?  " 

The  foreman  had  watched  closely,  trying  to  determine 
just  what  this  all  meant,  but  not  knowing  what  had  gone 
before,  he  was  mystified.  At  her  question  he  forced  a  show 
of  heavy  enthusiasm  and  said: 

*'  Bet  your  life ! "  Then  looking  up  to  see  the  tall  cow- 
boy eyeing  him  with  that  half  humorous  smile,  he  rose  and 
said: 

"  Now  we  can  start  doing  business.  Tom,  Miss  Hunter 
wants  a  horse,  says  she  can  ride  and  wants  the  best  we've 
got,  right  off,  to-day.  There's  that  bunch  that's  been  rang- 
ing in  Little  Pinion  all  winter.  Guess  we'd  better  bring  'em 
down  this  forenoon  and  let  her  pick  one." 

They  departed.  They  had  little  to  say  to  one  another  in 
the  hours  it  required  to  gather  the  horses  and  bring  them 
down,  but  when  they  were  within  sight  of  the  corrals  Hep- 
burn began  to  speak  as  though  what  he  had  to  say  was  the 
result  of  careful  deliberation. 

"  I  don't  want  us  to  have  any  misunderstandin',  Tom. 


26  THE  LAST  STRAW 

This  mornin'  I  figured  you  wanted  to  move  and  I  don't 
want  any  man  in  the  outfit  who'd  rather  be  somewhere  else, 
so  long  as  I'm  runnin'  it."  He  shifted  his  weight  in  the 
saddle  and  glanced  at  Beck,  who  rode  looking  straight 
ahead.  "  'Course,  you  and  I  ain't  been  pals.  I've  thought 
sometimes  you  didn't  just  like  me — " 

**  I  s'pose  she'll  want  a  gentle  horse,"  the  other  broke  in. 

"Prob'ly.  .  .  . 

"  You  and  I  can  be  friends,  I  know.  We  can  get 
along  — " 

"  Look  at  this  outfit !  "  Beck  interrupted  again,  this  time 
with  better  reason. 

Around  the  bend  in  the  road  appeared  a  queer  cavalcade. 
It  was  headed  by  a  pair  of  ancient  mules  drawing  a  covered 
wagon,  on  the  seat  of  which  sat  a  scrawny,  discouraged  man 
with  drooping  lids,  mustache  and  shoulders.  To  the  wagon 
were  tied  three  old  mares  and  behind  them  trailed  a  half 
dozen  colts,  ranging  from  one  only  a  few  weeks  old  to  a 
runty  three-year-old. 

These  were  followed  by  a  score  of  cattle,  mostly  cows 
and  yearling  calves,  and  the  rear  was  brought  up  by  a  girl, 
riding  a  big  brown  horse. 

She  was  young,  and  yet  her  face  was  strangely  mature. 
She  wore  a  hat,  the  worse  for  wear,  a  red  shirt,  open  at  the 
throat,  a  riding  skirt  and  dusty  boots.  She  was  slouched 
easily  in  the  saddle,  as  one  who  has  ridden  much. 

Tom  spurred  ahead  to  prevent  their  horses  from  entering 
a  draw  which  opened  on  the  road  just  where  they  must 
pass  and  as  he  slowed  to  a  walk  and  looked  back  he  saw 
Hepburn  making  a  movement  of  one  hand.  That  hand  was 
just  dropping  to  the  fork  of  his  saddle  but  —  and  he  ki.ew 
that  this  may  have  been  purely  a  product  of  his  imagination 
—  he  thought  that  it  had  been  lifted  in  a  gesture  of  warning. 

The  foreman  halted  and  the  wagon  stopped  with  a  creak, 
as  of  relief. 

"  Just  f oiler  on  down  and  swing  to  the  left.     Keep  right 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        27 

on.     You'll  pass  the  state  boundry,"  Beck  heard  Hepburn 
say. 

The  wagon  started  again  and  Dad  joined  him. 

"  Goin'  some  place?  "  Tom  asked. 

"  Utah.     He  was  askin'  the  way." 

Just  then  the  girl  came  within  easy  talking  distance. 

"  Goin'  far  ?  "  Tom  asked. 

"  Not  so  very  fur,"  the  other  replied  sullenly  and  swung 
a  worn  quirt  against  her  boot. 

They  rode  on  after  their  horses. 

"  Nesters,"  Beck  commented  grimly.  ''  They're  a  bad  lot 
to  see  comin'  in." 

Thank  God,  they're  headed  for  Utah,"  Dad  replied. 
Yeah.     Utah's  a  long  ways,  though.     The  girl  didn't 
seem  to  think  they  was  going  so  very  far." 

The  other  made  no  answer  and  after  a  moment  Beck  said : 

"  Notice  the  brand  on  them  cattle  ?  T  H  O  ?  That  ain't 
a  good  neighbor  for  the  H  C  to  have.  .  .  .  Unless  it's  an 
honest  neighbor." 

"  Well,  they're  goin'  into  Utah,"  Dad  said  doggedly. 

"  You  know,  Hepburn,  one  of  the  first  things  I'd  do  if  I 
was  foreman  of  this  outfit?  "  Beck  asked. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Take  up  the  water  in  Devil's  Hole.  That's  the  best 
early  feed  this  outfit  has  got,  but  without  water  it's  worth- 
less. Nesters  are  comin'  in,  which  would  worry  me,  if  I 
was  foreman.  The  Colonel  had  somebody  file  on  it  once, 
planning  to  buy  when  he'd  patented  the  claim.  Tliis  party 
didn't  make  good,  and  the  matter  dropped." 

The  other  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  looked  hard 
at  his  horse's  ears,  as  if  struggling  to  control  himself. 

"  I've  already  took  that  up  with  her,"  he  said  sulkil}',  and 
stirred  in  his  saddle. 

"  If  I  wasn't  foreman  of  an  outfit,  do  you  know  what  I'd 
do?     I'd  let  the  foreman  do  the  worryin'." 

Beck  scratched  his  chin  with  a  concern  which  surely 
could  not  have  been  genuine,  for  he  said : 


28  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Yeah.     That's  the  best  way.     Only  .  .  /' 

"  Well,  you  had  your  chance  to  be  foreman ;  why  didn^t 
you  take  it  ?  " 

Beck  pondered  a  moment. 

"  In  the  first  place  I  wasn't  crazy  wild  to  stay  with  this 
outfit,  'cause  when  I  lift  my  nose  in  the  air  and  sniff  real 
careful,  I  can  smell  a  lot  of  hell  coming  this  way,  and  I'm 
a  mighty  meek  and  peaceful  citizen. 

''  In  the  second  place,  I  don't  care  much  about  drawing  the 
best  job  in  the  country  like  I'd  draw  a  prize  cal<:e  at  a  church 
social." 

Hepburn  sniffed. 

"  You  passed  it  up,  though.  Now,  why  don't  you  pass  up 
worryin'  about  my  job?  " 

Beck  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  turned  on  the  other  a 
taunting,  maddening  smile. 

"  You're  right.  I  passed  it  up,  but  there's  something  that 
won't  let  me  pass  up  the  worry. 

"  You  know  what  that  is," —  nodding  toward  the  distant 
ranch  house.  "  You  know  she's  in  a  jack  pot.  You  heard 
her  tell  me  she  needed  good  men,  men  she  could  trust,  and 
the  good  Lord  knows  that's  so.  You  know  I  stayed  on  be- 
cause she  asked  me  like  she  meant  it  and  not  because  I 
fancied  the  job. 

''  I've  got  a  notion  that  makin'  good  out  here  means  more 
to  her  than  making  money ;  I  like  her  style,  and  I  like  to 
help  her  sort  if  I  can.  That's  why  I  may  do  more  'n  an 
ordinary  hand's  share  of  worryin'. 

*'  You  know,  somebody's  got  to," —  significantly. 

''What's  meant  by  that,  Beck?"  Dad  asked  after  a  mo- 
ment and  the  grit  in  his  tone  told  that  the  insinuation  had 
not  missed  its  mark. 

"If  it  was  so  awful  hard  for  you  to  guess,  Hepburn,  I 
don't  think  you'd  get  on  the  peck  so  easy.  I  mean  that  since 
she's  asked  me  to  stay  and  work  for  her,  I'm  on  the  job. 
Not  only  with  both  hands  and  feet  and  what  head  I've  got, 
but  with  my  eyes  and  my  ears  and  my  heart. 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        29 

"  I  don't  want  trouble,  but  if  I've  got  to  take  trouble  on, 
I'll  do  it  on  the  run ;  you  can  tie  to  that !  I  don't  like  you, 
Hepburn;  I  don't  trust  you.  Your  way  ain't  my  way  — 
No,  no,  you  listen  to  me!"  as  the  other  attempted  to  inter- 
rupt. "  A  while  back  you  was  trying  to  talk  friendship  to 
me  when  I'm  about  as  popular  with  you  as  fever.  I  don't 
do  things  in  that  style.  I  ain't  got  a  thing  on  you,  but  if  this 
was  my  ranch  I  wouldn't  want  you  for  my  foreman." 

"  You  mean  you  think  I'd  double  cross  her  an  — " 

"  I  don't  recall  bein'  that  specific.  I  just  mentioned  that 
I  don't  trust  you.  There's  no  use  in  your  getting  so 
wrought  up  over  it.  I  may  be  wrong.  If  I  am  you'll  win. 
I  may  be  takin'  a  chance,  which  is  against  my  religion,  but 
I'm  here  to  work  for  this  Hunter  girl  and  her  only  and  it 
won't  be  healthy  for  anybody  who  is  working  against  her  to 
bring  himself  to  my  notice. 

*'  I  guess  we  understand  each  other.  Maybe  you  can  get 
me  fired.  If  so,  that's  satisfactory  to  me.  So  long  as  I'm 
here  and  working  for  you,  I'll  be  the  best  hand  you've  got. 
If  you're  lookin'  for  good  hands  I'll  satisfy  you.  If  you 
ain't  ...  we  may  not  get  along  so  well." 

There  was  a  seriousness  in  his  eyes,  but  behind  it  was 
again  the  flicker  of  mockery  as  though  this  might  not  be 
such  a  serious  matter  after  all. 

"  We'll  see.  Beck,"  Hepburn  said  with  a  slow  nodding. 
"  We  understand  each  other.  You've  covered  a  lot  of  terri- 
tory.    Your  cards  are  on  the  table.     Bet !  " 

Tom  stroked  his  horse's  withers  thoughtfully.  He  con- 
tinued to  smile,  but  the  smile  was  not  pleasant. 

When  they  entered  the  big  gate  an  automobile  was  stand- 
ing before  the  bunkhouse  and  after  turning  the  horses  into 
a  corral  they  dismounted  and  walked  towards  it. 

"  Hello,  Larry !  "  exclaimed  Hepburn.  "  What  brings 
you  out  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  much,  judgin'  by  his  conversation,"  replied  the 
man  who  had  driven  the  car. 

"Visitor?" 


30  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"Dude.  Regular  dude  from  N'Yawk,  b'  Gosh!"  He 
spat  and  grinned.  "  Come  In  yesterday  and  was  busier  'n 
hell  all  day  buzzin'  around  town.  First  thing  this  a.  m.  he 
wants  to  come  here.     Great  attraction  you've  got,  it  seems." 

"  The  new  boss?  " 

''  Th'  same,  indeed !  I  seen  her.  Quite  a  peach,  I'll  go 
on  record.  But  .  .  .  Th'  boys  tell  me  she's  going  to  run 
this  outfit  with  her  own  lily  white  hands." 

"  So  she  says,"  replied  Dad  benevolently.  "  I  think  she'll 
do  a  good  job,  too." 

"  Like  so  much  hell,  you  do !  An'  I  hear  you're  foreman, 
Dad.  You  figurin'  on  marryin'  the  outfit  or  gettin'  rich  by 
honest  endeavor  ?  " 

"  Sho,  Larry !  You  and  your  jokes  !  "  the  man  grumbled 
good  naturedly  and  entered  the  building. 

"  Well,  if  any  of  you  waddles  are  calculatin'  marryin'  this 
filly  you've  got  to  build  to  her.  This  dude  sure  means  busi- 
ness. He's  found  out  more  about  the  LI  C  in  one  day  than 
I  ever  knew.  Besides,  what  I  knew  an'  he  didn't  he  got 
comin'  out.     Sure  's  a  devil  for  obtainin'  news. 

"  There  he  is  now;  see?  " 

He  gestured  toward  the  ranch  house  where  Jane  and  the 
stranger  stood  on  the  veranda,  the  girl  pointing  to  the  great 
sweep  of  country  which  showed  down  creek.  Then  they 
turned  and  reentered  the  house. 

"  And  so  this  is  yours !  "  the  man  laughed.  "  Yours  and 
your  business !  " 

"  My  business,  Dick !  For  the  first  time  I  feel  as  though  I 
had  a  real  object  in  living." 

He  smiled  cynically. 

"  Jane,  Queen  of  the  Range !  "  he  mocked. 

She  did  not  smile  with  him,  but  said  soberly : 

"  I  expect  it  is  funny  to  you.  It  must  be  funny  to  all  the 
old  crowd.  I  can  hear  them,  as  soon  as  they  know  that  I 
have  decided  to  stay  here,  the  girls  at  tea,  the  men  in  their 
clubs,  talking  it  over.  Jane  Hunter,  burying  herself  in  the 
mountains  and  doing  something,  becoming  earnest  and  seri- 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        31 

ous  minded,  getting  up  with  the  sun  and  going  to  bed  at 
dark !     It  is  strange  !  " 

"  It's  too  strange  for  Hfe,  Jane,"  he  said,  pulHng  up  his 
trousers  gingerly  and  sitting  on  the  davenport.  He  leaned 
back  and  smoothed  his  sleek  hair.  "  It  isn't  real.  You're 
going  to  wake  up  before  long  and  find  that  out. 

"  It  was  absurd  enough  for  you  to  come  here,  but  this 
preposterous  notion  that  you  are  going  to  stay.  .  .  .  Why, 
that's  beyond  words !     What  got  into  you,  anyhow?  " 

He  eyed  her  closely. 

"  I  don't  knew,  yet.  It's  a  strange  impulse  but  it's  real, 
the  first  real  thing  that's  ever  gotten  into  me,  I  guess.  I 
know  only  that  .  .  .  except  that  it  is  a  pleasant  sensation. 

"  When  I  left  New  York  I  was  desperate.  I  came  here 
to  take  something  tangible  that  was  mine  and  go  back  with 
it  and  now  I've  found  out  that  the  thing  I  want  is  nothing 
that  I  can  see  or  touch,  that  I  can't  take  it  away  with  me. 
Not  for  a  long  time,  anyhow.  It  isn't  waiting  ready-made 
for  me ;  I  must  create  it  from  the  materials  that  are  in  my 
hands." 

He  continued  to  look  at  her  a  thoughtful  moment. 

"  You've  told  me  a  lot  about  yourself  and  about  this  ranch 
and  about  these  men  who  are  working  for  you.  You've  told 
me  about  this  country  and,  rather  vaguely,  about  your  plans. 
I  suspect  you  don't  know  much  about  them  yet,"  he  added 
parenthetically.  "  You've  not  asked  a  question  about  New 
York,  nor  why  I  came." 

She  picked  a  yellowed  leaf  from  a  geranium  plant  and 
turned  to  face  him. 

"  As  for  New  York,"  she  said  with  a  lift  of  the  eyebrows 
and  a  quick  tilt  of  her  head,  **  I  don't  give  a  .  .  .  damn," — 
softly.  "  As  for  your  coming,  I  didn't  need  ask.  When  a 
man  has  followed  a  girl  wherever  she  has  gone,  to  sea,  to 
other  countries,  for  four  years,  there  is  nothing  surprising  in 
the  fact  that  he  should  trail  her  only  two-thirds  of  the  way 
across  this  continent.  ... 

"  But  it's  no  use,  Dick.     I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would 


32  THE  LAST  STRAW 

not  marry  you  before  I  came  here.  I  tried  to  convince  you 
of  the  honesty  of  my  purpose  in  my  last  letter,  but  perhaps 
I  failed  because  I  wasn't  truly  honest  with  myself  then.  I 
thought  I  was  through,  but,  in  reality,  I  was  only  planning 
a  variation  of  the  old  way  of  doing  things. 

"  Now  I'm  finished,  absolutely,  with  the  rot  I've  called 
life!" 

She  lifted  her  chin  and  shook  her  head  in  emphasis.  The 
man  laughed. 

"  You  amuse  as  much  as  you  thrill  me,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  hungrily. 

"  That's  a  splendid  way  to  help  a  fellow :  to  laugh  at  the 
first  effort  I  make  to  justify  my  existence." 

"  I  want  to  help  you,  Jane.  I've  always  wanted  to  help 
you.  I've  put  myself  and  what  I  have  at  your  disposal. 
I've  not  only  done  that,  but  I've  begged  and  pleaded  and 
schemed  to  make  you  take  them.  You'd  never  listen  when  I 
talked  love  to  you. 

"  You've  always  seemed  to  be  a  peculiarly  material-minded 
girl  and  I  had  to  play  on  that.  But  when  I've  talked  ease 
and  comfort  and  luxury  to  you,  you  know  that  I've  meant 
more  than  just  those  things.  It's  been  love,  Jane  .  .  .  love 
in  every  syllable." 

He  rose  and  walked  to  stand  before  her. 

*'  That  hurt,"  she  said,  with  a  sharp  little  laugh.  "  That 
.  .  .  .materialism.  But  I  believe  it  was  only  too  true.  It 
had  to  be,  you  see.  It  was  the  only  thing  I  could  see  to  live 
for.  There  was  the  one  thing  I  missed,  the  thing  I  had  ex- 
pected to  find.  It  was  the  thing  you  talked  about:  Love. 
I  wanted  love,  tried  to  find  love  and  at  twenty-five  gave  it  up. 
That's  a  horrible  thing,  Dick.  Giving  that  up  at  twenty- 
five  ! " 

**  But  I  have  offered  you  love,  continually,  for  four  years." 

"  Dick  .  .  .  oh,  Dick  !  You  don't  know  what  that  means. 
You  showed  that  when  you  selected  your  tactics :  trying  to 
give  me  things  that  I  could  taste  and  touch  and  see. 

"  If  it  had  been  love,  the  real  thing,  that  you  felt,  you'd 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        33 

have  overwhelmed  me  with  it,  you  would  not  have  allowed 
another  consideration  to  enter,  you'd  have  swept  me  off  my 
feet  with  making  me  understand  that  it  was  love.  You 
wouldn't  have  talked  places  and  motors,  luxury  and  aim- 
lessness." 

Her  voice  shook.     She  was  hurt,  bordering  on  anger. 

"  You  pass  the  buck,"  he  retorted  evenly.  "  You've  told 
me,  time  after  time,  that  love  didn't  matter  to  you." 

"  Not  the  sort  you  offered.     It  never  could." 
There's  another  kind,  then  ?  " 
Somewhere," —  with  an  emphatic  nod. 
You  think  you   can   find  the  sort  you're   looking   for 
here?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  of  that  yet,  but  I  know 
there  is  something  else  I  can  find." 

"And  that?" 

"Myself!"— stoutly. 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  a  hearty  laugh, 

"  You  talk  like  a  convert,  Jane !  " 

"  I  am,  Dick.  Just  that.-  I've  seen  the  evil  of  my  ways, 
I  have  seen  the  hght;  I'm  going  to  try  to  justify  my  exist- 
ence, going  to  try  to  stand  for  something,  to  be  something, 
not  just  a  girl  with  looks  or  with  .  .  .  money. 

"  I  may  miss  love  entirely,  but  I  have  realized,  all  of  a 
sudden,  that  as  yet  I'm  not  fit  for  the  love  I  wanted.  Why, 
I  have  nothing  to  give  to  a  man ;  I  would  take  all  and  give 
nothing.  A  woman  doesn't  win  a  true  love  by  such  a  trans- 
action. If  I  can  stand  alone,  if  I  can  fight  my  own  battles, 
if  I  can  overcome  obstacles  that  are  as  real  as  the  love  I 
have  wanted,  then  I  will  be  justified  in  seeking  that  love.  .  .  . 

"  And  there's  another  consideration:  If  this  thing  I  have 
wanted  never  does  come  I  have  the  opportunity  of  gaining  all 
that  you  say  you  could  give  me  by  my  own  efforts :  the  com- 
forts, the  material  things.  I  wouldn't  be  trading  myself  for 
them,  you  see ;  I'll  be  winning  them  with  my  hands  and  what 
intelligence  I  may  possess." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that,  Jane?     Are  you  sure  that  a  girl 


34  THE  LAST  STRAW 

who  has  never  done  a  tap  of  work  in  her  life,  who  has  not 
even  talked  business  with  business  men  can  come  out  here 
and  beat  this  game  ?  Oh,  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about  and 
you  don't.  I  spent  all  yesterday  in  town  looking  up  this 
place  because  your  letter  was  convincing  in  at  least  one 
thing.  I  know  your  enthusiasm,  when  it's  aroused.  I  know 
that  you'd  rush  in  where  a  business  prince  wouldn't  even 
chance  a  peek ! 

"  When  men  talk  about  you  in  town  they  grin.  The  bar- 
tender grinned  when  he  told  me  about  you.  The  banker 
grinned.  The  man  who  drove  me  out  thought  it  was  a  fine 
joke!  These  men  know;  they're  not  skeptical  because  they 
know  you  or  your  past,  but  they  know  the  job  and  that 
you're  a  stranger.  That's  enough.  You  can't  beat  an- 
other man's  game." 

"  I  can  try,  can't  I  ?  " 

"  But  what's  the  use  ?  " —  with  a  gesture  of  impatience 
and  a  set  of  the  mouth  that  was  far  from  pleasant. 
"  You're  doomed  to  fail  and  even  if  you  should  hit  on  the 
one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  pulling  through,  what  would 
you  get?  Less  than  I  can  give  you  in  the  time  it  takes  to 
sign  my  name.  You  won't  let  me  talk  love  and  you  don't 
seem  to  have  much  hope  that  you  ever  will  find  the  love 
you  think  you  want,  so  let's  put  love  aside  once  more.  Come 
with  me,  Jane.  I'll  give  you  all  you  could  ever  hope  to  get 
here  and  without  the  cost  of  the  awful  effort  anything  like 
success  would  require. 

"  You've  been  bored,  perhaps,  and  discouraged.  You've 
taken  this  thing  as  a  ...  a  last  straw.  Won't  you  listen 
to  reason?  " 

"  The  last  straw,"  she  repeated.  "  Yes,  I  guess  that  is  it. 
Dick,  do  you  know  how  close  I  came  to  letting  you  do  the 
thing  you  wa.nt  to  do  ? "  She  put  the  question  sharply. 
"  I'll  tell  you :  Within  three  hundred  dollars !  That's  how 
close. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  the  game  I've  played.     No  ©ae 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        35 

knows  it.  You  all  have  jus-t  E'^en  the  exterior,  the  show. 
You've  never  been  behind  the  scenes  with  me. 

"  I  never  knew  my  mother.  I  never  knew  my  father  well. 
I  don't  know  that  he  cared  much  for  me  after  she  went; 
perhaps,  though,  he  was  only  afraid  to  bring  up  a  girl  alone. 
First,  it  was  boarding  school,  then  finishing  school,  then  a 
woman  companion  of  the  smart  sort.  Then  he  died,  and 
we  discovered  that  his  fortune  was  not  what  it  had  been, 
that  it  was  a  miserable  thing  for  a  girl  to  depend  on  who 
had  been  trained  as  I  had  been  trained. 

"  You  met  me  soon  after  I  was  alone.  I  fell  in  with 
your  crowd  and  they  picked  me  up.  I  didn't  like  them  par- 
ticularly and  certainly  I  didn't  like  their  life,  but  it  was  the 
only  one  open  for  me.  We  lived  hard,  heartless  lives,  made 
up  of  week-ends  and  dances  and  cocktails  and  greed ! 

"  Materialism  is  the  right  charge !  I  was  steeped  in  it ; 
all  those  girls  were.  It  was  the  only  thing  any  of  us  lived 
for.  Girls  sold  themselves  for  material  advantage;  they 
loathed  it,  most  of  them,  but  they  lied  to  themselves  and 
tried  to  make  the  rest  of  us  believe  it  was  happiness.  They 
knew,  and  we  knew  what  it  was  and  we  knew,  too,  that  they 
were  helpless  to  do  otherwise. 

"  Then  you  came  and  made  love  to  me  on  the  same  crass 
basis.  I  liked  you,  Dick.  I  didn't  love  you.  I  cared  no 
more  for  you  than  I  did  for  three  or  four  men  so  I  kept 
putting  you  off,  never  actually  discouraging  you  to  a  point 
where  you  would  give  up.  I  was  simply  closing  my  eyes 
to  the  inevitable. 

"  Now  and  then  we  met  women,  to  us  strange  creatures, 
who  did  things.  I  never  can  make  anyone  understand  how 
inferior  I  felt  beside  them.  Why,  I  remember  one  little 
decorator  who,  because  she  was  young  and  cheap,  came  to 
do  my  apartment  over.  I  had  her  stay  for  dinner  and  she 
was  quite  overwhelmed  with  many  things. 

"  When  she  went  away  I  cried  from  sheer  envy  .  .  .  and 
she  was  going  down  somev/here  into  Greenwich  Village  to 


36  THE  LAST  STRAW 

sleep  in  a  stuffy  little  studio.  But  she  was  doing  some- 
thing. I  used  to  feel  guilty  before  my  dressmaker  and  even 
my  maid.  I  didn't  understand  why  that  was,  then ;  it  was 
not  a  sensation  produced  by  reason;  by  intuition,  rather. 

**  And  then  I  had  to  look  at  things  as  they  were.  I  paid 
up  everything  and  totaled  my  bank  balance.  Every  source 
of  income  I  had  ever  had  was  gone  and  I  had  left  .  .  .  three 
hundred  and  two  dollars.  That  was  on  a  Friday,  the  Friday 
of  our  last  week-end  party  at  the  Hollisters'  in  Westchester. 

''  You  talked  to  me  again  that  night  after  we  had  been 
playing  billiards.  Dick,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  take 
you  up.  The  words  were  on  my  lips ;  I  was  within  a  breath 
of  telling  you  that  it  was  a  bargain,  that  Fd  sell  myself  to 
you  for  the  things  you  could  buy  me.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't.  Maybe  it  was  this  part  of 
me  I  had  never  known  until  I  came  here,  this  part  which 
enthuses  so  over  what  lies  before  me  now,  the  part  that 
used  to  envy  the  girls  who  did  things.  We  went  back  to 
town  and  there  was  a  letter  for  me  from  this  little  frontier 
law  office,  telling  me  I  had  inherited  this  ranch.  I  didn't 
sleep  a  minute.     I  was  sole  owner  of  a  big  business.  .  .  . 

"  I  never  can  make  you  understand  the  relief  I  experi- 
enced !  It  meant  money  and  money  meant  that  I  could  go 
on  in  the  old  way,  putting  off  the  inevitable,  blinding  myself 
to  what  I  actually  was. 

"  That  was  my  motive  in  coming  here :  to  turn  this  prop- 
erty into  money.  And  no  sooner  had  I  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  these  people  than  I  began  to  learn  that  my  point  of 
view  had  been  radically  different  from  theirs.  I  had  thought 
that  money  would  give  me  the  thing  I  wanted,  independence 
and  prestige;  but  I  found  that  with  them,  with  the  best  of 
them,  anyhow,  that  sort  of  standing  was  not  considered. 

"  The  thing  that  counts  out  here  is  being  yourself,  Dick, 
in  making  a  place  by  your  determination,  your  wits,  by  im- 
pressing people  with  the  best  that  is  in  you.  Material  things 
don't  count  in  the  mountains ;  that  is,  they  don't  count  pri- 


THE  NESTER  —  AND  ANOTHER       37 

marily.  They  are  nice  things  to  possess  but  the  possession 
of  them  alone  does  not  bring  respect  .  .  .  the  respect  of 
others  or  self  respect.  That,  I  think,  is  what  I  want:  re- 
spect. That  is  what  I  am  going  to  win.  The  only  way  I 
can  win  it  is  to  establish  a  place  for  myself  by  my  own 
efforts.  These  men  doubt  that  I  can  do  it.  You  are  right, 
I  believe,  when  you  picture  the  whole  country  expecting  me 
to  fail.  Well,  that's  an  incentive,  isn't  it,  to  do  my  best? 
That  is  what  I  am  here  to  do ! 

"  There,  there's  Book  One."  Then  looking  out  into  the 
country.  ..."  There's  the  rest  of  the  story." 

The  man  did  not  reply  for  an  instant  but  stood  frowning 
at  the  floor. 

"  And  when  you  fail  ?     What  then  ?  " 

She  laughed  almost  merrily. 

"  Don't  say  zvhen  so  positively !  But  if  I  should  fail, 
Dick,  I  might  have  to  take  you  up  !  It  might  break  my  faith 
in  myself  because  it's  a  young,  immature  faith,  but  it  will 
give  me  a  chance,  a  few  months  of  seeing  whether  I'm  of 
any  account.     It  gives  me  a  hope." 

As  she  spoke  of  her  alternative  a  glimmer  as  of  hope 
passed  across  the  man's  thin,  finely  moulded  face  but  he 
did  not  let  her  see.     He  shook  his  head  and  said : 
'''  After  this  the  first  thing  I  need  is  a  drink." 

"  On  the  sideboard,"  she  answered,  ''  is  rny  stock." 

He  walked  down  the  room  and  examined  the  bottles,  then 
poured  out  two  drinks  and  returned  with  them. 

"  Anyhow,  we'll  drink  to  your  future,  whatever  and  wher- 
ever it  may  be,"  he  said,  cynical  again. 

"  That's  kind  of  you,  but  Fm  afraid  you'll  have  to  drink 
alone." 

She  put  the  glass  he  had  handed  her  on  the  table. 

"  It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  seen  you  refuse  a  drink.'* 

"  A  record  broken !  That,  like  the  rest  of  the  old  life, 
all  belongs  in  Book  One." 

"  You  .  .  .  you  never  thought  you  used  enough  to  hurt?  " 


38  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  No.  I'm  sure  I  never  used  enough  to  hurt  my  body.  I 
never  thought  I  used  enough  to  hurt  anything  about  me  .  .  . 
until  last  night." 

''  What  made  you  change  your  mind  ?  " 

She  was  half  impelled  to  pass  the  question  off,  then  said 
resolutely : 

"  A  man  came  here  to  talk  to  me,  one  of  my  cowpunchers. 
I  made  a  cocktail.     He  threw  it  away." 

"  Well,  that  was  a  devil  of  a  thing  to  do.  Did  you  fire 
him,  as  he  deserved?  " 

"  No," —  deliberately,  tracing  a  line  on  a  rug  with  her 
toe  and  watching  it  critically — "I  took  his  advice.  You 
see,  the  men  out  here  expect  things  from  women  that  no  one 
has  ever  expected  from  me  before." 

He  sneered:  "  Turned  Puritan,  Jane?  A  sw^eet  thing  to 
face,  trying  to  be  other  than  yourself,  confining  yourself  to 
the  morals  of  the  crowd." 

*'  Not  just  that,  Dick.  There's  a  sweetness  about  it,  yes. 
As  for  morals :  we  didn't  discuss  them  at  all.  .  .  . 

"  This  man  said  that  he  supposed  some  people  thought  it 
was  smart  to  drink.  That  hit  me  rather  on  the  head. .  We 
were  the  smartest  people  in  New  York,  weren't  we  ?  " 

''  Rot !  " 

''  Perhaps.  It  interested  me,  though,  when  I'd  gotten 
over  the  first  shock.  He  said  another  thing  that  interested 
•me ;  he  said  that  I  was  the  first  good  white  woman  he'd  ever 
seen  smoke." 

He  laughed  harshly. 

"  At  least  he  did  you  the  honor  to  think  you  good." 

"  Yes," —  still  deliberately, — "  and  it  was  a  novel  sensa- 
tion. It  was  the  first  time  any  man  had  ever  appealed  to 
the  commonplace  thing  in  me  that  we  call  womanhood.  He 
wasn't  preaching.     It  was  a  practical  matter  with  him.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  understand  this  man,  Dick.  He 
takes  little  things  quite  seriously  and  yet  he  appears  to  be 
laughing  at  the  whole  scheme  all  the  time." 

He  put  his  glass  down  slowly.    . 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER        39 

"  Do  you  mean  that  one  of  these  roughnecks  has  been 
making  love  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  by  no  means.  I  don't  think  he  even  Hkes  me  and 
I  want  him  to  !  Why,  this  morning  he  was  going  away,  was 
not  even  going  to  work  for  me,  and  I  had  to  beg  him  to 
stay. 

''  Dick,  you  don't  understand !  This  man  is  so  different 
from  you,  from  me,  from  all  of  us.  Rough,  yes,  but  I  don't 
think  he'd  try  to  buy  a  woman.  And  if  he  should  I'm  sure 
he'd  be  most  frank  about  it ;  he  wouldn't  hide  behind  words." 

She  looked  hard  at  him  and  though  she  smiled  her  words 
stung  him,  but  before  he  could  break  in  she  went  on: 

"  When  I  sat  here  having  him  talk  to  me  last  night  I  had 
that  dreadful  inferior  feeling  again,  felt  as  though  I  weren't 
up  to  the  standard  of  good  women  that  these  roughnecks 
hold.  I  can't  explain  it  to  you  because  you  wouldn't  let 
yourself  understand.  I  was  furious  for  a  time,  but  he  was 
right,  according  to  his  way  of  thinking. 

"  That  way  is  going  to  be  my  way," —  with  growing  firm- 
ness. "  I'm  playing  a  new  game  and  I  must  play  it  accord- 
ing to  the  rules.  I  did  more  than  make  up  my  mind  to  leave 
the  drinks  and  cigarettes  alone.  I  resolved  that  I'd  try  to 
be  worthy  in  every  way  of  the  respect  I  vs^ant  these  men  tO' 
have  for  me !  " 

"  Because  this  Westerner  doesn't  approve  of  the  way  you 
have  lived  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  knows  the  rules  of  the  new  game." 

''  Jane,  I'm  going  to  stop  this  foolishness ! "  He  ad- 
vanced to  her  and  caught  her  hands  in  his.  "  I  love  you, 
I  love  you !  I'm  not  going  to  see  you  losing  your  head  this 
way !  " 

She  struggled  to  withdraw  her  hands. 

"  No,  I'm  going  to  hold  you,  going  to  keep  you.  Fm  — " 
He  drew  her  to  him  roughly,  but  she  slipped  from  the  clasp 
of  his  arm  and  backed  across  the  room,  her  hands  still  im- 
prisoned in  his. 

"  Dick ! " 


40  THE  LAST  STRAW 

It  was  not  her  cry  which  caused  him  to  halt.  It  was  a 
step  outside  the  door  and,  standing  there,  her  hands  in  bis, 
he  met  the  level,  amused  gaze  of  Tom  Beck. 

Jane  turned  from  him  and  he  let  her  go  without  attempt 
to  restrain  her  further. 

"  Ma'am,  the  horses  are  here.  Your  foreman  said  to  tell 
you." 

His  face  lost  a  measure  of  its  lightness  as  he  stood  hat 
in  hand,  looking  from  the  man  whose  face  was  lined  with 
passion  to  the  girl,  flushed  and  a  bit  breathless. 

'*  Very  well.  .  .  .  And  thank  you.     I'll  be  out  soon." 

He  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  as  though  he  thought  his 
presence  might  be  needed  there.  Then  turned  and  walked 
away. 

"  Your  help  seems  rather  unceremonious,"  Hilton  re- 
marked, 

"Thanks  for  that!  What  if  he  had  seen  more?  Dick, 
are  you  beside  yourself?    You  call  this  love?" 

"  It  proves  that  it's  love,"  he  replied  tensely.  "  You  set 
me  wild  with  your  vagaries,  Jane!  You — "  He  checked 
himself  and,  with  an  obvious  effort,  smiled.  Then  went  on 
with  voice  and  manner  under  control :  "  You  see,  I  am 
much  in  love  with  you  and  losing  you  for  only  a  little  while 
puts  me  a  bit  off  my  head. 

"  I  have  wanted  you  for  four  years  and  I'm  jealous  of  the 
months,  even  the  weeks.  I'm  sure,  but  that  doesn't  help 
•much." 

"Sure?    Of  what?" 

"Of  you." 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  you.  You  confessed  your  weaknesses 
just  a  moment  ago.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  you're  with- 
out foundation,  without  background  in  this  experience. 
Why,  Jane,  if  you'd  been  capable  of  fighting  your  own  bat- 
tles, you'd  have  forced  the  issue  long  before  it  was  neces- 
sary, but  you  are  not.  You  need  help,  you  need  the  faith 
of  other  people. 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER       41 


"  Why,  women  like  you  weren't  made  to  stand  alone ! " 

*'  Flattering !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is.  You  were  made  to  be  loved,  to  be  protected, 
to  have  the  men  take  the  knocks  for  you,  you  and  all  your 
kind.  You  were  born  to  lean  and  to  make  the  lives  of  men 
worth  while  by  leaning  on  them,  never  to  attempt  to  go  your 
own  way.  You  have  always  done  just  this  and  you  have  ad- 
mitted it,  here,  this  afternoon. 

"  Your  wild  wants,  your  absurd  desires.  .  .  .  Everyone 
has  them.  That  is  a  rule  of  life:  wanting  to  do  the  thing 
you  are  not  fitted  to  do.  You  can  no  more  be  a  business 
woman  than  I  can  fly ;  you  can  no  more  cut  yourself  away 
from  your  old  environment  and  slip  into  this  than  one  of 
your  cowpunchers  could  fit  into  my  life. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  you're  risking  disaster?  In  your  old 
life  you  had  a  belief  in  yourself ;  in  this  you  think  you  have, 
but  you  have  not,  your  eyes  will  be  opened  and  when  you 
see  that  you  have  failed  .  .  .  then  you  will  be  a  failure,  and 
nothing  is  so  hopeless  as  that  realization. 

"  You  are  weak,  and  I  thank  God  for  that  weakness.  You 
know  that  it  is  either  this,  or  me.  You  are  trying  this, 
trying  to  refuse  me,  but  you  will  come  back  to  me  just  as 
surely  as  we  stand  together  in  this  room.  You  may  come 
back  without  a  shred  of  faith  in  yourself,  but  I  have  faith 
in  you,  in  the  old  Jane,  the  one  I  know  and  love,  and  I  can 
bring  that  back.  The  future  won't  be  bad ;  it  will  be  wholly 
good." 

His  words  were  very  gentle,  his  manner  most  kindly,  but 
beneath  it  was  a  scarcely  detectable  hardness,  a  deliberate, 
coid  determination,  and  perhaps  it  was  this  which  struck  a 
fear  into  the  girl's  heart. 

Weak  ?  Surely,  she  was  weak !  Always  had  been  weak, 
never  had  proved  strength  by  act  or  decision  until  now. 
And  she  did  not  know  .  .  .  she  did  not  know.  .  .  . 

"You  are  sure  that  I  will  come  back?"  she  managed  to 
say  naturally  enough.  "What  if  I  should  fail?  Might  I 
not  try  somewhere  else  ?  " 


42  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  You  might,  if  you  were  another  sort.  But  you  won't. 
And  you  will  fail,  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do,  Jane." 

She  sensed  clearly  the  harsh  strength  beneath  his  smooth 
manner ;  his  pronouncement  had  not  been  as  an  opinion ;  as 
a  verdict,  rather,  and  ominous  in  its  assurance. 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"  I  know ;  I  know.  It  is  of  no  use  to  argue  with  you. 
You  must  learn  this  lesson  by  experience.  It  is  going  to  be 
bitter,  but  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  what  waits  beyond 
take  away  that  taste,  Jane. 

"  I  am  not  going  away.  I'm  going  to  stay  in  this  little 
town.  After  four  years  of  waiting  and  following  I  can  well 
do  that.  Your  world  is  there,  Jane,  yours  for  the  asking. 
There  are  the  things  you  wanted ;  there  is  the  love  you  want 
if  you  only  will  see  it." 

He  left  her  then  and  when  he  had  gone  she  felt  a  quick 
panic  come.  It  all  seemed  so  absurd,  her  struggling  in  the 
things  which  held  her  back ;  and  his  manner  left  her  with  a 
sense  that  he  thought  more  than  he  had  spoken,  that  his 
assurance  was  founded  well,  that  he  would  not  be  the  tacit 
waiter  he  had  suggested.  She  knew  his  passion  for  her,  she 
knew  his  will  and  it  came  to  her  then  that  beneath  his  sleek- 
ness he  was  ruthless. 

She  stared  down  Coyote  creek,  not  following  him  with 
her  eyes. 

The    things    I   have    wanted.  .  .  .  Yes,"    she    thought. 

But  love:  is  that  anywhere?" 

The  sound  of  the  car  departing  roused  her  and  she 
watched  it  go.  Then  a  commotion  in  the  corral  attracted 
her.  She  saw  horses  milling,  saw  Tom  Beck  standing  ready, 
rope  in  his  hand ;  then,  with  a  dexterous  flip  of  the  loop,  a 
slight,  overhand  motion,  he  snared  a  pinto  and  braced  his 
feet  against  the  antics  of  the  animal  and  held  firmly  until  it 
had  quieted. 

She  watched  him  go  down  the  rope  slowly,  hand  over 
hand,  with  caution  and  assurance  until  he  rested  his  fingers 
on  the  nose  of  the  frightened  animal.     A  forefoot  shot  out 


THE  NESTER  — AND  ANOTHER       43 

in  a  lightning  stroke  at  him  but  he  did  not  flinch.  She  saw 
that  he  was  talking  to  the  horse,  gently,  quietly,  with  the 
born  confidence  of  the  master. 

"Anywhere?"  she  asked  herself  again,  this  time  aloud, 
still  watching  Beck.  *'  Why,"—  eyes  lighting  in  surprise 
that  was  almost  astonishment  — **  it  might  be  .  .  .  might 
bel" 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    CHAMPION 

BECK  was  still  busy  with  the  horses  when  Jane  ap- 
peared, bareheaded  and  clad  in  a  riding  habit.  He 
had  separated  the  unbroken  stock  from  the  horses  that  had 
been  turned  loose  for  the  winter  and  was  playing  with  these 
last,  overcoming  the  shyness  that  months  on  the  range  had 
engendered. 

As  she  stopped  at  the  corral  he  walked  toward  her,  study- 
ing her  face.  There  was  no  trace  of  confusion  or  embar- 
rassment and  for  all  he  could  discern  she  might  have  had 
her  mind  on  horses  only  since  early  forenoon.  That  puz- 
zled him  because,  though  he  was  far  from  certain,  he  had 
felt  that  the  scene  which  he  had  interrupted  had  caused  her 
distress.  Still,  he  reminded  himself,  this  was  not  the  type 
of  woman  he  knew.  She  was  completely  strange  to  him; 
good  margin,  that,  for  coming  to  mistaken  conclusions. 

*'  These,  ma'am,  are  the  gentle  horses,"  he  explained.  "  I 
cut  'em  out  for  you.     They're  some  of  the  best  you've  got." 

"  They're  rough,  of  course,"  she  remarked  after  eyeing  the 
animals  a  moment  and  he  looked  at  her  sharply  because  her 
manner  was  of  one  who  is  familiar  with  horses,  ''  but  noth- 
ing here  looks  particularly  good.  Are  these  all  you  brought 
in?" 

"  I  cut  the  rest  into  the  little  corral.  There's  some  good 
ones  there,  but  they  ain't  gentle." 

They  walked  toward  the  other  enclosure  and  at  their  ap- 
proach the  colts  gave  evidence  of  alarm. 

"  Now  that  brown  horse  's  been  ridden  some  — " 

"  But  what  about  the  sorrel  ?  "  she  broke  in  as  a  shapely 
head  with  a  white  star  between  the  eyes  and  a  flowing  fore- 

44 


THE  CHAMPION  45 

lock  tossed  back  over  delicate  ears  rose  above  the  mass  of 
backs. 

"Him,  ma'am?  He's  probably  the  best  colt  you  own; 
got  the  makin's  of  a  fine  horse,  but  he's  a  bad  actor." 

Just  then  the  crowding  of  the  horses  broke  into  a  milling 
and  the  sorrel  came  into  full  view.  A  beautiful  beast  with 
white  stockings  behind,  deep  chest,  high  withers,  short, 
straight  back. 

"  He's  a  beauty!  "  she  declared.  "  He  has  bone  and  leg. 
He's  gaunt  now ;  not  enough  belly,  but  I  suppose  that's  be- 
cause he's  been  on  the  range.  I  like  that  square  hipped  sort 
when  you  can  get  its  strength  without  sacrificing  looks." 

"  You're  acquainted  with  horses  somewhat,  I  take  it." 

"  I've  ridden  some ;  hunted  a  little.  Can  you  bring  him 
out  ?  " 

Beck  entered  the  corral  and  roped  the  horse.  For  an  in- 
stant he  resisted,  head  flung  back  and  feet  securely  planted ; 
then  he  came  out  of  the  bunch  on  a  trot. 

"  He  knows  what  a  rope  is.  It  don't  take  an  intelligent 
creature,  man  or  beast,  long  to  learn." 

The  horse  stood  watching  him  suspiciously,  ready  to  run 
if  given  the  opportunity. 

"  Where  shall  we  try  him  ?  "  Jane  asked. 

"  In  the  big  corral,"  he  replied  and  led  the  sorrel  through 
the  gate. 

The  colt,  closely  snubbed,  stood  trembling  while  the  blan- 
ket was  put  on;  then  flinched  and  breathed  loudly  as  the 
weight  of  the  saddle  was  gently  placed  on  his  back.  He 
stepped  about  and  kicked  as  the  cinch  was  drawn  tight  and 
resisted  a  long  time  the  efforts  of  the  man  to  slip  a  bit  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

Jane  stood  by  watching,  her  attention  divided  between 
admiration  of  the  man  and  the  horse.  The  former  was  as- 
sured, gentle,  positive  in  every  move ;  the  latter  alarmed, 
rebellious  but  recognized  the  fact  that  he  was  under  control. 

"  Now,  if  you'll  shorten  the  stirrups  I'll  try  him,"  she 
said. 


46  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Fow'll  try  him,  ma'am  ?  Why,  this  horse  ain't  been  rid- 
den three  times  in  his  hfe.     He'll  buck  an'  buck  hard." 

"  So  much  more  reason  why  I  should  try  him.  We  spoke 
of  reputations  last  night ;  they  can  only  be  formed  at  the 
cost  of  knocks.  There  are  many  things  I  must  try  to  do 
out  here;  there  are  bound  to  be  some  that  I  can't  even  try 
but  this  is  not  one." 

"But  you—" 

"  Must  I  order  you  to  let  me  ride  him  ?  " 

There  was  no  lightness  in  the  question ;  she  meant  busi- 
ness, Beck  realized.  And  her  bruskness  delighted  him  for 
when  he  turned  to  give  the  cinch  one  more  hitch  —  his  only 
reply  to  her  question  —  he  was  smiling  merrily. 

It  was  not  much  of  a  ride  as  western  riding  goes.  Beck 
blindfolded  the  sorrel  with  the  black  silk  scarf  he  wore 
about  hio  neck,  helped  Jane  to  mount,  saw  that  she  had  both 
stirrups,  took  the  rope  cautiously  from  the  trembling  bron- 
co's neck  and,  at  her  nod,  drew  off  the  blind. 

For  a  moment  the  great  colt  stood  there  as  if  bewildered. 
Then,  with  a  grunt  and  a  bound,  he  bowed  his  back,  hung 
his  head  and  pitched. 

"  Keep  his  head  up !  His  head !  "  warned  Beck,  watching 
with  intense  interest.     "  Watch  him  .  .  ." 

The  horse  went  straight  forward  for  a  half  dozen  jumps. 
Erect  in  the  saddle,  sitting  too  far  back,  trusting  too  much 
to  her  stirrups,  Jane  rode. 

The  violence  of  the  lunging  jerked  her  head  unmercifully 
but  she  had  her  balance.  .  .  .  Until  he  sunfished,  with  a 
wrenching  movement  that  heaved  her  forward  against  the 
fork,  dangerously  near  a  fall. 

'*'  Grab  it  all !  "  called  Beck,  not  remembering  that  his  in- 
junction to  hang  on  was  as  Greek  to  her.  ''He —  Look 
out ! " 

With  a  vicious  fling  of  his  whole  body  the  sorrel  swapped 
ends  and  as  he  came  down,  head  toward  the  man,  the  girl 
shot  into  the  air,  turned  completely  over  and  struck  full  on 
her  back. 


THE  CHAMPION  47 

Beck  ran  to  her,  heedless  of  "he  horse,  which  circled  at  a 
gallop.  She  lay  very  still  with  her  eyes  closed ;  a  smudge 
of  dirt  was  on  her  white  cheek.     He  knelt  beside  her. 

*'  Are  you  hurt,  ma'am  ?  "  he  asked,  and  when  she  did  not 
reply  raised  her  head  to  his  knee.  Her  body  was  surpris- 
ingly light,  surprisingly  firm,  as  he  held  it  with  an  arm  be- 
neath her  shoulders.  He  was  fumbling  with  her  collar  to 
open  it,  knuckles  against  her  soft  throat,  when  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  gasped  and  coughed.  She  tried  to  speak  but 
for  a  moment  continued  to  choke;  then  smiled  and  said 
weakly : 

"  I  didn't  .  .  .  ride  him." 

"  But  you  made  a  fine  try !  "  he  said  with  more  enthusi- 
asm than  she  had  seen  him  display.  "  And  I  sure  am  glad 
you  ain't  hurt  bad  !  " 

She  laughed  feebly  and  he  felt  her  breath  on  his  cheek, 
for  their  faces  were  very  close;  he  felt  his  heart  leap,  too, 
and  helped  her  up,  saying  words  of  which  he  was  not  con- 
scious. 

"  I  can  stand  alone,"  she  said  after  he  had  steadied  her  an 
interval  and  reluctantly  he  took  his  arm  from  about  her. 
"  I'd  like  to  try  him  again." 

''  But  you're  not  going  to,  not  to-day.  I'm  giving  you 
that  order," —  with  resolution.  "  I  wouldn't  want  you  to 
be  hurt,  ma'am.     I  — " 

He  checked  himself,  realizing  that  he  had  become  very 
earnest  and  that  she  was  looking  straight  into  his  eyes,  read- 
ing the  concern  that  was  there. 

There  was  talk  of  that  ride  in  the  bunkhouse  when  the 
men  came  in.  Jimmy  Oliver  had  seen  from  a  distance  and 
asked  Beck  for  the  story.  He  related  the  incident  rather 
lightly  and  ended: 

"  Tried  to  keep  her  ofif  him,  but  only  got  orders  to  take 
orders.  If  she  breaks  her  neck  tryin'  some  such  tricks,  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised." 


48  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  She  appears  to  have  sand,  though,"  OHver  commented, 
as  though  he  were  making  a  concession. 

Others  had  opinions  to  pass,  briefly,  to  the  point.  Those 
men  were  not  given  to  accepting  readily  a  stranger  and  this 
stranger,  being  a  woman,  came  to  them  under  an  added 
handicap.  Where  a  man,  inept  and  showing  the  same  cour- 
age, might  have  found  himself  quietly  accepted,  Jane's  at- 
tempt at  riding  was  not  received  with  noticeable  warmth. 
The  performance  was  in  her  favor,  and  that  was  about  all 
that  could  be  said. 

A  close  observer  might  have  noticed  that  Tom  Beck  gave 
attention  whenever  another  spoke  of  their  new  boss,  as 
though  deeply  interested  in  what  the  men  had  to  say.  Yet 
when  he  spoke  of  her,  his  manner  was  rather  disparaging. 

Mail  had  come  in  that  afternoon  and,  a  happening  with- 
out precedent,  there  were  two  letters  for  Two-Bits.  The 
man,  who  could  not  write  and  whose  reading  was  limited 
to  brands,  never  received  mail  and  before  he  arrived  there 
was  speculation  as  to  the  writer  of  the  one  letter.  Of  the 
other  there  was  no  mystery  because  each  man  of  the  outfit 
had  received  a  similar  envelope  containing  a  circular  letter 
from  a  boot  manufacturer. 

Two-Bits  arrived  late,  riding  slowly  toward  the  corral 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ranch  house  for  a  possible  look  at  his 
fair  employer. 

"  Mail  for  you,  Two-Bits,"  Curtis  remarked  casually  as 
he  entered. 

The  others  concealed  their  interest  while  Beck  handed  the 
letters  to  Two-Bits,  who  stood  eyeing  them  gravely,  striving 
to  cover  his  surprise.  This  could  not  be  done,  though,  for 
his  agitated  Adam's  apple  gave  him  away  as  he  stood  with  a 
letter  in  each  hand,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I'll  bet  two-bits  somebody's  dead,"  he  said  with  con- 
cern, then  walked  to  the  window  under  a  growing  sense  of 
importance  at  his  deluge  of  correspondence. 

He  opened  the  letter  which  they  knew  contained  the  solici- 
tation of  the  maker  of  boots  and  all  watched  him  as  he  stood 


THE  CHAMPION  49 

scowling  at  it  for  minutes.  He  folded  the  sheet  with  a  sigh 
and  stuffed  it,  with  the  other  letter,  into  his  chap  pocket  and 
walked  thoughtfully  to  his  bunk,  sitting  down  heavily,  el- 
bows on  his  knees.  He  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  and 
made  a  depreciatory  clicking  with  his  tongue. 

"  Boys,  I  always  knowed  that  girl'd  turn  out  a  bad  one ! 
It's  awful.  .  .  .  An'  her  mother  a  lady !  " 

For  a  moment  their  restraint  held  and  then  their  laughter 
cut  loose  with  a  roar.  Curtis  fell  face  down  on  his  bunk 
and  laughed  until  his  entire  length  shook.  Jimmy  Oliver 
gasped  for  breath,  hands  across  his  stomach,  and  the  others 
reeled  about  the  floor  or  leaned  against  the  walls,  weak  with 
mirth. 

"  It  ain't  nothin'  to  laugh  at !  "  Two-Bits  protested,  but 
when  he  failed  to  convince  them  of  the  gravity  he  shammed, 
he  rose  and  permitted  an  abashed  grin  to  distort  his  freckled 
face,  muttered  something  about  feeding  his  horse  and  walked 
out. 

It  was  Saturday  evening  in  a  season  of  light  work  and  the 
social  diversions  of  Ute  Crossing  had  called  H  C  riders. 
Hepburn  departed  early  and  after  their  horses  had  eaten 
Beck  and  Two-Bits  rode  out  of  the  ranch  townward  bound. 
Out  of  sight  of  the  building  Two-Bits  said: 

"  Tom,  my  eyes  ain't  very  good.  I'd  like  to  get  you  to 
read  this  here  other  letter  for  me." 

Beck  knew  that  such  confidence  was  high  compliment  for 
Two-Bits  was  sensitive  over  his  educational  shortcomings, 
so  he  took  the  letter  and,  after  glancing  down  the  single  page, 
said: 

"  This  is  from  the  Reverend  Azariah  Beal." 

"  Oh,  my  gosh !  That's  my  brother !  What's  the  matter 
with  him,  Tom  ?  " 

The  other  read  as  follows: 

My  dear  Brother  :  —  God  willing,  I  shall  visit  you.  I  have 
often  been  impelled  to  renew  our  fraternal  relationships  but 
my   various   charges    have    demanded   my   sole    attention. 


so  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Now,  however,  I  am  on  a  brief  sojourn  in  the  marts  of  trade 
and  my  interests  call  me  in  your  direction.  I  expect  to 
arrive  shortly  after  you  receive  this.  May  the  Almighty 
guard  and  bless  thee  and  keep  thee  safe  until  our  hands 
meet  in  the  clasp  of  brotherly  love. 

'*  Oh,  my  gosh !  "  cried  Two-Bits  again,  Adam's  apple 
leaping  and  his  gray  eyes,  usually  so  mild,  alight  with  en- 
thusiasm. "  He's  comin'  to  visit  me.  Gosh,  Tom,  but  he's 
a  smart  man !  Ain't  that  elegant  language  ?  Say,  he's  the 
smartest  man  in  our  family  an'  he's  comin'  clean  from 
Texas  to  see  me." 

**  How  long  since  you've  seen  him?  " 

*'  Oh,  quite  a  while.     Since  I  was  three  years  old." 

"  And  how  long  ago  was  that  ?  " 

"  You  got  me.  I  heard  about  him.  He's  a  preacher. 
Tvly,  oh  my,  but  sJic'll  like  him.     He's  smart,  like  she  is." 

His  manner  was  high  elation  and  he  spoke  breathlessly, 
and  while  they  trotted  on  he  chattered  in  his  high  voice, 
eulogizing  the  virtues  of  this  brother  he  had  not  seen  since 
infancy,  regaling  the  other  with  long  and  vague  tales  of  his 
accomplishments.  Pressed  for  details  he  could  not  offer 
them  because  his  knovvdedge  of  the  relative  had  come  to  him 
verbally  through  the  devious  channels  of  the  cattle  country, 
but  this  did  not  shake  his  conviction  that  the  Reverend  Beal 
was  peerless. 

Tom's  mind  was  not  on  the  extravagant  talk  of  Two-Bits. 
Curiously,  it  persisted  in  thinking  of  Jane  Hunter. 

Two  days  before  he  had  thought  this  girl  from  the  east 
was  a  rattle-brained  piece  of  inconsequence  with  her  selec- 
tion of  a  foreman  by  the  drawing  of  straws.  Now  he  was 
not  so  sure  that  she  did  not  possess  at  least  several  admirable 
qualities.  He  had  offended  her,  gently  bullied  her,  only  last 
evening ;  he  had  sensed  the  waning  of  her  own  feeling  of  su- 
periority, had  understood  that,  behind  her  pique,  she  took 
to  heart  the  things  he  had  said,  things  which  he  had  said  not 


THE  CHAMPION  51 

because  he  thought  she  shoula  know  them  but  because  he 
wanted  to  see  how  she  would  react  to  blunt  truths. 

She  wanted  something  very  badly.  Not  money ;  that  had 
been  a  means.  Perhaps  it  was  that  vague  thing,  Herself,  of 
which  he  had  spoken.  He  did  not  understand,  but  he  liked 
her  determination.  .  .  .  And  what  was  this  other  stranger, 
this  man,  to  her  ? 

He  put  his  horse  into  a  lope  with  a  queer  misgiving.  He 
was  taking  this  woman  seriously !  He  was  saying  slighting 
things  about  her  and  yet  hoping  that  other  men  would  speak 
about  her  highly !  He  had  never  taken  many  things  —  par- 
ticularly women  —  seriously  before  and  his  experience  with 
women  had  not  been  meager.     It  frightened  him.  .  .  . 

They  dismounted  before  the  saloon  which  adjoined  the 
hotel,  eased  their  cinches  and  approached  the  doorway. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  next  building  two  men  were  talking 
and  Beck  eyed  the  figures  closely.  One,  he  knew,  was  Hep- 
burn, and  the  other,  from  the  intonation  of  his  cautiously 
lowered  voice,  he  took  to  be  Pat  Webb,  the  rancher  of  whom 
he  had  spoken  to  Jane  Hunter,  telling  her  that  his  presence 
in  the  country  was  not  an  asset  for  her. 

He  went  inside,  rather  absorbed.  Sam  McKee  was  there, 
one  of  Webb's  riders,  the  one  on  whom  Beck  had  inflicted 
terrible  punishment  for  cruelty  to  a  horse.  McKee  looked 
away,  a  nasty  light  playing  across  his  gray  eyes,  but  Beck 
did  not  even  give  him  a  glance.  What  was  Hepburn  doing 
in  close  talk  with  Webb  ?  he  asked  himself.  For  years  Webb 
had  been  under  suspicion  as  a  thief  and  a  friend  of  the  law- 
less. Colonel  Hunter  had  never  trusted  him,  and  now  the 
foreman  of  the  H  C  was  talking  with  him,  secretly.  .  .  . 

A  moment  later  Hepburn  entered  and  lounged  up  to  the 
bar  and  shortly  afterwards  Webb  came  in.  He  was  a  small 
man  with  sharp  features  and  bright,  button-like  eyes  which 
roved  restlessly.  His  skin  was  mottled,  his  lips  hard  and 
cruel;  his  body  seemed  to  be  all  nerves  for  he  was  in  con- 
stant motion. 


52  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Webb  ordered  a  drink  and  glanced  about,  eyeing  Beck  and 
Two-Bits  with  a  suggestive  smile.  He  drank  with  a  swag- 
ger and  wiped  his  lips  with  a  sharp  smack,  still  smiling  as 
though  some  unpleasant  thought  amused  him. 

A  man  at  the  far  end  of  the  bar  moved  closer  to  Hep- 
burn. 

"  How's  the  new  boss  ?  "  he  said  with  a  grin,  and  Hepburn 
said,  in  his  benevolent  manner,  that  he  believed  she  would 
do  very  well. 

Others,  interested,  came  closer  and  more  questions  fol- 
lowed.    Then  Webb  broke  in: 

"  I  shouldn't  think  that  you  H  C  waddies  'uld  be  in  town 
nights  any  more," —  his  glittering  eyes  on  them  rather  jubi- 
lantly. 

The  talk  stopped,  for  Webb,  unsavory  as  to  reputation, 
was  still  a  figure  in  the  country  and  his  manner  as  he  spoke 
was  laden  with  significance. 

"  How's  that,  Webb?  "  Hepburn  asked. 

"  How's  that !  "  the  other  mocked.  "  I've  seen  her,  ain't 
that  enough?  There's  only  two  reasons  why  men  want  to 
come  to  this  hole  nights ;  one's  booze,  an'  th'  other's  women. 
You  can  carry  your  booze  out  home  an' — " 

He  went  on  with  his  blackguard  inference  and  w^hen  he 
had  ended  a  laugh  went  up,  a  ribald,  obscene,  barroom  laugh. 
It  had  reached  its  height  when  Tom  Beck,  whose  eyes  had 
been  on  Hepburn  as  Webb  gave  voice  to  his  insult,  elbowed 
the  foreman  from  his  way  and  faced  the  one  who  had  occa- 
sioned that  laugh. 

There  was  in  his  manner  a  quality  which  caught  attention 
like  nippers. 

He  stood,  forcing  Webb  to  look  into  his  threatening  face 
a  quiet  instant.     Then  he  spoke: 

"  That's  a  lie !  " 

The  bantering  smile  swept  from  the  other's  face  and  his 
mouth  drew  down  in  a  slanting  snarl. 

"  What's  a  lie  ?  " 

"  What  you  said  is  a  lie,  Webb,  an'  you're  a  liar  — " 


THE  CHAMPION  53 

The  smaller  man's  hand  whipped  to  his  holster  and  Beck, 
breaking  short,  closed  on  him,  fingers  like  steel  gripping  the 
ready  wrist. 

"  Don't  try  that  with  me,  you  rat !  " 

With  a  steady  pull  he  Hfted  the  resisting  hand  which 
gripped  the  gun  away  from  the  man's  side  while  Webb 
struggled,  cursing  as  he  found  himself  unable  to  resist  that 
strength. 

"  Give  me  that  gun !  " 

Beck  wrenched  the  weapon  free.  The  group  had  drawn 
back  and  behind  him  Sam  McKee  made  a  quick  movement. 
Two-Bits,  beside  him,  dropped  his  hand  to  his  hip  and  mut- 
tered: 

''  Keep  out  of  this  !  " 

McKee,  hate  flickering  in  his  face,  subsided,  without  pro- 
test, as  a  craven  will. 

Tom  broke  the  gun  and  the  cartridges  scattered  on  the 
floor.  He  closed  it  with  a  snap  and  sent  it  spinning  down 
the  bar,  clear  to  the  far  end.  His  eyes  had  not  left  Webb's 
face. 

"  You're  a  liar,"  he  said  again  quietly.  "  You're  a  liar 
and  you're  going  to  tell  all  the  boys  here  that  you're  a  liar." 

"  Don't  tell  me  I  lie !  " —  retreating  a  step  as  Beck's  body 
swayed  toward  him. 

*'  You  lied,"  Tom  said  quietly,  though  his  voice  was  not 
just  steady.  His  hands  were  clenched  and  he  held  them 
slightly  before  his  body  as  though  yearning  for  opportunity 
to  seize  upon  and  injure  the  other. 

*'  What  is  it  to  you,  anyhow,  if — " 

"  It's  this  to  me,  Webb :  It  makes  me  want  to  strangle 
the  foul  breath  in  your  throat!  That's  what  it  is  to  me  an' 
before  these  boys  I  will  if  you  don't  swallow  your  own  dirty 
words  just  to  get  their  taste. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  a  killer,  even  over  such  as  you  are, 
but  you've  got  me  mad.  We  don't  know  an'  nobody  else 
knows  how  this  girl's  goin'  to  make  it  in  this  country,  but, 
by  God,  Webb,  she's  goin'  to  have  a  fair  chance.     There 


54  THE  LAST  STRAW 

ain't  going  to  be  any  rotten  talk  that  ain't  called  for  an'  it 
ain't  called  for  .  .  .  yet. 

"  I  expect  I'd  get  into  trouble  if  I  killed  you  for  this. 
There's  just  one  chance  for  me  to  keep  out  of  trouble,  and 
that's  for  you  to  say  you  lied !  " 

He  moved  closer  as  Webb  retreated  slowly,  his  spurs 
ringing  ever  so  slightly,  yet  their  sound  was  audible  in  the 
stillness. 

"  Say  it !  "  he  insisted.     "  Say  it,  you  whelp !  " 

Webb's  face  had  gone  from  red  to  the  color  of  suet  and 
the  blotches  stood  sharply  out  against  the  pallor.  His  dirty 
assurance  was  beaten  down  and  before  this  man  he  was 
frightened  .  .  .  and  enraged  at  his  own  fright. 

"  Mebby  I  spoke  too  quick  — " 

"  You  lied !  Nothin'  short  of  that !  Say  you  lied  and 
say  it  now.  .  .  .  Quick !  " 

He  half  lurched  forward,  lifting  his  eager,  vengeful  hands, 
when  Webb  relaxed  and  gave  a  short,  half  laugh  and  said : 

"  Have   it   your   own   way.     I    lied,    I    guess.     I    didn't 


mean  — " 


"  That'll  do,  Webb.  You've  said  all  that's  necessary." 
He  stood  back  and  dropped  his  hands  limply  to  his  side, 
eyeing  the  other  with  dying  wrath.  His  gaze  then  went  to 
Hepburn  and  clung  there  a  moment,  eloquent  of  contempt 
and  he  might  as  well  have  said :  "  You're  her  foreman. 
W^hy  didn't  you  take  this  up  ?  " 

Tlien  he  moved  to  the  bar  and  asked  for  a  drink.  Con- 
strained talk  arose.  Webb  sulkily  recovered  his  gun  and 
stood  close  to  Sam  McKee,  drinking.  From  the  doorway 
which  led  into  the  hotel  office  Dick  Hilton  turned  back, 
whistling  lowly  to  himself,  a  speculative  whistle. 

Tom  Beck  rode  home  alone,  hours  before  he  had  intended 
to  leave  town.  Why  had  he  done  that?  Always  he  had 
disliked  Webb  but  why  had  this  thing  roused  in  him  such 
tremendous  rage  ?  he  asked  as  he  unsaddled. 

He  laughed  softly  to  himself  as  though  he  had  done  some- 


THE  CHAMPION  55 

thing  ridiculous ;  then  he  strolled  down  toward  the  creek 
and  stood  under  the  cottonwoods  a  long  interval,  watching  a 
lighted  chamber  window. 

"  You're  a  queer  little  yellow-head,"  he  said  aloud  to  that 
window.  "  You're  the  kind  that  gets  men  into  trouble,  but 
maybe  you're  .  .  .  worth  it,  a  lot  of  it." 

He  stood  for  some  time,  until  his  wrath  had  wholly  gone 
and  the  mood  which  sent  merriment  dancing  in  his  eyes 
had  returned.  It  had  been  a  day  of  understanding:  he  had 
broken  down  the  barrier  of  deceit  which  Hepburn  had  at- 
tempted to  build,  he  had  come  to  understand  that  there  was 
something  strange  in  the  pursuit  of  Jane  Hunter  by  Dick 
Hilton,  he  had  understood  that  in  his  employer  was  at 
least  a  physical  courage  which  was  promising,  he  had  humili- 
ated Webb  and  given  the  whole  country  to  understand  that 
there  should  be  no  doubting  of  the  new  girl's  reputation. 

Of  those  incidents  the  only  one  now  giving  him  concern 
was  the  attitude  of  the  foreman.  His  suspicion  was  strong, 
his  evidence  wholly  inadequate. 

Tom  stood  beside  his  bunk  for  a  time.  He  had  thrown 
down  his  gauntlet ;  he  had  taken  a  chance.  He  might,  from 
now  on,  face  danger  or  humiliation  but  he  experienced  a 
relief  at  knowledge  that  so  far  as  he  v;as  concerned  there 
was  no  longer  anything  under  cover.  He  did  not  fear  Hep- 
burn or  Webb  so  far  as  his  own  safety  went.  But  there 
were  other  things,  he  told  himself. 

What  was  up  ?  Just  what  game  would  Hepburn  play  .  .  . 
if  any?  And  who  was  that  man  from  the  East?  To  what 
was  Jane's  confusion  due  that  afternoon?  Was  it  only  em- 
barrassment ?     Only  ? 

He  dozed  off  and  woke  with  a  start.  Again  he  felt  the 
weight  of  her  body  on  his  arm,  again  the  warmth  of  her 
breath  on  his  -cheek.  He  lay  there  with  his  heart  hammer- 
ing, then,  with  a  growl,  rolled  over  and  went  to  sleep. 

Well  he  could  that  night !  But  other  nights  were  coming 
when  he  would  ponder  the  significance  of  Hilton,  when  the 
cloud  which  he  then  saw  vaguely  over  Jane  Hunter's  future 


56  THE  LAST  STRAW 

would  be  real  and  appalling,  when  he  would  actually  feel  her 
body  in  his  arms,  when  her  warm  breath  would  mingle  with 
her  warm  tears  on  his  cheek,  when  he  would  hope  that 
death  might  come  to  him  as  a  tribute  to  her.  Oh,  yes,  Tom 
Beck  could  put  it  all  aside  and  sleep  this  night,  but  there 
were  others  coming  .  .  .  other  nights.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   COURTING 

JANE  HUNTER  was  in  work  up  to  her  trim  elbows. 
She  had  Httle  time  for  anything  else.  Twice  again  Dick 
Hilton  came  to  see  her,  riding  a  horse  in  the  second  visit, 
but  his  stays  were  not  lengthy  .  .  .  and  not  satisfactory,  be- 
cause the  girl  had  little  thought  for  anything  l^ut  ranch  af- 
fairs. 

For  long  hours  she  sat  at  the  desk  which  she  had  placed 
in  a  bay  window  that  commanded  a  superb  view  of  far 
ridges  and  pored  over  records  she  had  found.  She  dis- 
covered a  detailed  diary  of  events  for  the  past  ten  years,  a 
voluminous  chronicle  kept  more  for  the  sake  of  giving  self- 
expression  to  the  old  colonel  than  for  an  efficient  record,  but 
it  served  her  well  as  a  key  to  the  fortunes  of  the  property. 

From  time  to  time  she  sent  for  one  of  her  men  and 
quizzed  him  rigidly  on  some  phase  of  the  work  with  which 
he  was  particularly  familiar,  never  satisfied  until  she  had 
learned  all  that  he  could  teach  her.  Every  evening  Hepburn 
sat  with  her  and  discussed  ranch  affairs  at  length,  Jane 
forcing  him  into  argument  to  defend  his  statements. 

While  with  the  girl  Dad  maintained  his  paternal,  patron- 
izing attitude,  yet  he  was  not  content,  as  was  evident  from 
the  moroseness  which  he  displayed  before  the  men.  He 
had  been  stripped  of  initiative  until  his  authority  was  re- 
duced to  executing  orders ;  this,  despite  the  fact  that  Jane 
depended  on  him  for  most  of  her  information. 

Beck  watched  the  foreman's  attitude  carefully.  Hepburn 
was  chagrined,  yet  dogged,  as  though  staying  on  and  accept- 
ing the  situation  for  definite  purpose.  It  had  been  de- 
cided after  Jane  had  argued  away  Hepburn's  objections  that 

57 


58  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Beck  was  to  have  a  free  hand  with  the  horses,  gathering  the 
saddle  stock  and  getting  it  in  shape  for  the  summer's  work, 
breaking  young  horses,  watching  the  mares  and  cohs.  This 
made  it  unnecessary  for  Beck  to  look  to  the  older  man  for 
detailed  orders  and  delayed  the  clashes  which  were  bound 
to  come  between  them. 

Jane's  approach  to  her  respwDnsibilities  was  considered 
admirable  by  the  men,  but  it  occasioned  little  comment. 
Their  judgment  of  her  was  still  suspended;  that  is,  with 
the  exception  of  Two-Bits.  Her  first  look  had  won  him 
without  reservation. 

She's    smart ! "    he    declared    at     frequent    intervals. 

She's  the  smartest  girl  I've  ever  seen  .  .  .  an'  the  love- 
liest ! "  The  last  with  a  drop  in  the  voice  which  provoked 
laughter. 

Once  he  said  to  Beck : 

"  My  gosh,  Tommy,  how'd  you  like  to  have  wife  like  her?  " 

The  other  smiled  cryptically. 

"  Now  you're  gettin'  into  a  profound  subject,"  he  said. 
"  It  ain't  wise  to  pick  out  a  wife  like  you'd  pick  out  a  horse. 
There  ain't  much  can  fool  a  man  who  knows  horses  when 
he  looks  one  over  careful-like,  but  there's  a  lot  about  women 
that  you  can't  know  by  lookin'  'em  over  and  watching  'em 
step." 

He  was  watching  Jane  "  step  "  and  though  he  still  was 
the  first  to  listen  when  others  spoke  of  her  qualities  his  man- 
ned toward  her  was  the  least  flattering  of  any. 

After  she  had  ridden  the  sorrel  twice,  each  time  accom- 
panied by  Beck  or  Hepburn  she  sent  Two-Bits  to  saddle 
him. 

"  What  you  doing  with  that  horse  ?  "  Beck  asked,  looking 
up  from  the  hoof  of  a  colt  which  he  pared  gently  to  reveal 
some  hidden  infection. 

"  She  wants  him  to  ride,"  the  cowboy  explained. 

**  Coin'  alone  ?  " 

"Guess  so." 


THE  COURTING  ,59 

"  Then  take  that  saddle  off  and  put  it  on  the  little  pinto." 

"  But  she  said  to  — " 

"  Makes  no  difference.  You  take  it  off  or  I'll  make  you 
look  like  two  bits,  Mex !  " 

On  finding  her  order  miscarried  Jane  demanded  explana- 
tion. 

"  Tommy,  he  told  me,"  Two-Bits  said,  uneasily. 

"  But  I  ordered  the  sorrel  — " 

"  And  I  told  Two-Bits  to  give  you  this  paint,  ma'am,'* 
Beck  said,  the  foot  of  the  colt  still  between  his  knees. 

"  And  why?" — with  a  show  of  spirit. 

*'  Because  you  ain't  up  to  him  yet  and  he  ain't  down 
to  you.  If  somebody  w^as  with  you,  it'd  be  different.  You 
can't  ride  him  alone,  ma'am." 

She  gave  her  head  an  indignant  toss  and  was  about  to 
demand  the  execution  of  her  plan  but  he  turned  back  to 
his  work,  talking  gently  to  the  animal.  Then  with  a  grud- 
gingly resigned  sigh  she  walked  toward  the  pinto,  for 
there  was  something  about  Beck  that  precluded  argument. 

Again  she  told  him  of  a  contemplated  visit  to  the  ranches 
further  down  the  creek. 

Why,  ma'am  ?  "  he  asked. 

There  are  many  things  to  talk  over,  plans  for  the  sum- 
mer's work  and  the  like.  Besides,  I  want  to  become  ac- 
quainted." 

He  smiled  and  said: 

"  That  last  is  fine,  but  I  guess  you'd  better  wait  for  the 
rest." 

"Wait?     What  for?" 

"  Until  you  know,  ma'am.  You  see,  you've  only  been 
here  a  little  while ;  you've  learned  a  lot,  but  you  don't 
know  enough  to  talk  business  with  anybody  yet.  It  won't 
be  good  for  you  to  go  talking  about  something  you  don't 
understand." 

"  I  think  I  am  capable  of  judging  that,"  she  said  bruskly. 
"  I  will  go." 


it 


6o  THE  LAST  STRAW 

But  she  did  not.  She  had  intended  to  go  the  next  day 
but  as  she  lay  awake  that  morning  she  told  herself  that 
he  had  been  right,  she  did  not  know  enough  about  her 
affairs  to  discuss  her  relationships  with  neighbors  intel- 
ligently. She  still  smarted  from  his  frankness,  but  the 
hurt  was  leavened  by  a  feeling  that  behind  his  presump- 
tion had  been  thought  of  her  own  welfare. 

She  tired  quickly  in  the  first  days  that  she  rode  and  once, 
remarking  on  it,  she  drew  this  advice  from  Beck : 

"  You'd  do  a  lot  better  without  corsets." 

Simply,  bluntly,  impersonally  and  with  so  much  assur- 
ance that  she  could  not  even  reply.  His  observation  had 
smacked  of  no  disagreeable  intimacy.  She  had  told  him 
that  she  tired;  he  had  given  her  his  idea  of  the  cause. 

She  took  off  her  corsets. 

A  day  of  cold  rain  came  on ;  at  noon  the  downpour  abated 
for  a  time  and  Jane  asked  Hepburn  to  ride  dowm  the  creek 
with  her  to  look  over  land  that  was  to  be  cleared  and  ir- 
rigated. 

"  Have  you  got  a  slicker,  ma'am  ?  "  Beck  asked  when  she 
requested  that  a  horse  be  saddled. 

She  had  none. 

"  There  ain't  an  extra  one  on  the  place,"  he  said,  "  so  I 
guess  you'd  better  not  go." 

"  But  the  rain  is  over.  Anyhow,  what  hurt  will  a  wetting 
do?" 

"  I  don't  guess  the  rain's  all  over,"  he  said.  "  And  to 
get  wet  and  cold  ain't  a  good  thing  for  anybody ;  it'd  be  a 
mighty  bad  thing  for  you.  You're  a  city  woman ;  you  can't 
do  these  things  yet." 

An  exasperating  sense  of  inferiority  came  over  her,  bring- 
ing a  helpless  sort  of  rage.  This  man  was  not  even  her 
foreman  and  yet  he  brought  her  up  short,  time  after  time. 
She  started  to  tell  him  so,  but  changed  her  mind.  Also, 
she  changed  her  plans  for  the  day. 

He  was  not  rough,  not  obtrusive  in  any  of  this.     Just 


THE  COURTING  61 

frank  and  simple,  and  when  she  bridled  under  it  all  she 
saw  that  twinkle  creep  into  his  eye,  as  though  she  were  a 
child  and  her  spirit  amused  him ! 

But  she  did  more  than  amuse.  She  could  not  see,  she 
could  not  know ;  nights  he  roused  from  sleep  and  lay 
awake  trying  to  fathom  the  sensations  he  experienced ;  days 
he  rode  without  sufficient  thought  for  the  work  that  was 
before  him.  At  times  he  was  impelled  to  be  irritable  to- 
ward her  and  this  because  his  stronger  impulse  was  to  be 
gentle ! 

He  did  not  want  to  care  for  this  woman  and  he  found 
himself  caring  in  spite  of  himself  1  He  rode  to  town  and 
spent  an  evening  with  a  waitress  from  the  hotel,  taking  her 
to  a  picture  show,  paying  her  broad  compliments,  seeing 
her  pride  rise  because  of  his  attentions,  and  he  rode  home 
before  daylight,  disgusted  with  himself.  His  life  was  be- 
ing reshaped,  his  tastes,  his  desires.  His  caution  against 
taking  chances  was  being  beaten  down. 

She  commenced  to  ride  with  him  regularly  and  these 
rides  grew  longer  as  she  found  her  body  becoming  tough- 
ened and  her  endurance  greater  until  they  were  together 
many  hours  each  day,  until,  in  fact,  escorting  her  had 
become  Beck's  job.  The  ostensible  purpose  of  this  was  to 
learn  the  country  and  the  manner  of  range  work  but 
though  she  did  learn  rapidly  their  talk  was  largely  personal. 
Beck  was  not  responsive  and  the  more  reserved  he  became 
the  greater  Jane's  efforts  to  force  him  to  talk  of  himself. 

These  efforts  netted  her  little  and  after  a  time  she  gave 
up,  tentatively,  and  adopted  other  means  of  winning  his 
confidence. 

Once  she  helped  him  gather  a  bunch  of  horses  that  had 
not  been  corraled  for  seasons.  The  way  led  down  a  steep 
point  and  Jane  was  ahead,  holding  up  the  bunch  while 
Beck  crowded  them  from  behind.  She  took  the  descent 
with  a  degree  of  hesitation  for  the  going  —  so  steep  that 
she  was  forced  to  clamp  a  hand  behind  her  cantle  to  re- 


62  THE  LAST  STRAW 

tain  a  seat  —  chilled  her  with  fear.  On  the  level  she  fanned 
the  sorrel  and  kept  ahead  of  the  horses  until  she  could 
lead  them  safely  into  a  corral. 

The  gate  closed,  Jane  looked  at  Beck  with  sparkling  eyes, 
expecting  a  word  of  reward,  but  he  only  said : 

"  You've  got  to  keep  goin'  with  horses.  The  country's 
all  got  to  look  level  to  you.  You  slowed  up  bustin'  off  that 
point."     , 

The  rebuke  hurt  her  .  .  .  and  stimulated  her  ambition. 

He  taught  her  to  use  a  rifle  and  she  brought  down  her 
first  deer,  a  yearling  buck,  at  long  range. 

"  I  told  you  to  hold  just  behind  his  shoulder;  see  where 
you  hit,"  he  said,  indicating  the  wound,  a  hand's  breadth 
too  far  back. 

She  shot  with  his  revolver  and  he  told  her  that  she  would 
never  learn  to  use  the  weapon.  She  bade  him  teach  her  the 
rudiments  of  roping  and  he  decried  the  woman  movements 
of  arms  and  body. 

In  all  this  he  was  quick  to  criticise,  niggardly  of  praise; 
ready  to  teach,  reluctant  to  grant  progress. 

She  was  resentful  but  her  resentment  was  no  match 
for  her  determination.  Now  and  then  his  rebukes  whipped 
flushes  to  her  cheeks  and  more  than  once  she  left  him 
with  tears  standing  in  her  eyes,  only  to  tell  herself  aloud 
that  she  would  make  him  acknowledge  her  accomplish- 
ments. .  .  . 

Once,  riding  on  alone  after  Jane  had  turned  back  toward 
the  ranch  Beck  encountered  Sam  McKee.  The  man  had 
dismounted  and  was  recinching  when  Tom  passed  him.  He 
looked  up  with  that  baleful  expression,  as  though  he  was 
impelled  to  do  the  H  C  rider  great  harm  and  held  back  only 
by  his  cowardice.  When  Tom  had  passed  McKee  mounted 
and  before  he  started  on  his  way  he  turned  to  shout  over  his 
shoulder : 

"  Chaperone ! " 

In  it  he  put  all  that  contempt  which  small,  timid  boys 
put  into  their  shouted  taunts. 


THE  COURTING  63 

Beck  was  not  angered  but  that  gave  him  something  to 
think  about. 

Another  time  as,  on  his  roan,  he  led  the  sorrel  toward 
the  gate  to  the  houseyard  he  saw  Hepburn  smiling  at  him 
with  scornful  humour  and  when  the  foreman  saw  that 
Beck  had  seen  he  said: 

"  A  regular  chaperone,  ain't  you  ?  '* 

Tom  did  not  reply  though  it  roiled  him.  He  thought 
about  the  remark  at  length  but  the  thing  which  interested 
him  was  that  Hepburn  had  used  the  same  word  that  McKee 
had  used.  .  .  .  Was  that,  he  asked  himself,  mere  chance? 

They  had  ridden  far  to  the  eastward  one  afternoon  and 
returning  long  after  dark  Jane  made  a  meal  herself  and 
they  ate  together  at  her  table.  Beck  was  noticeably  re- 
strained and  when  finished  hastened  to  leave. 

'*  Can't  you  sit  and  talk  with  me  a  while  ?  "  she  asked. 

'*  I  could,  ma'am,  but  is  it  necessary?" 

"  Not  necessary  to  the  business,  perhaps,  but  it  might 
mean  a  pleasant  evening  for  me." 

He  gave  her  steady  gaze  for  steady  gaze  and  then  said: 

"  Anybody  would  think  you  were  courtin'  me,  ma'am." 

She  laughed  easily,  yet  her  gaze  wavered.     She  asked: 

"And  what  if  I  should  be?" 

This  disconcerted  him  but  he  replied : 

"  It's  likely  I'd  quit." 

"I'm  .  .  .  wholly  distasteful  to  you,  then?" 

"  If  I  was  to  say  yes,  it'd  hurt  your  feelings,  needless. 
So  I  won't.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you,  though,  that  the 
country  is  calling  me  your  chaperone." 

"  And  does  what  people  say  worry  you  ?  " 

"  Not  when  they  talk  about  something  that  I'm  responsi- 
ble for.     I  didn't  hire  out  as  a  ...  a  companion,  ma'am." 

She  stepped  closer,  hands  behind  her  and  said: 

"  The  first  time  you  talked  to  me  at  any  length  you  had 
a  great  deal  to  say  about  respect.  No  one  had  ever  talked 
to  me  as  you  did.  I  took  it  because  it  was  true  .  .  .  and 
I  respected  you. 


64  THE  LAST  STRAW 

'*  Since  that  time  I  have  been  trying  to  be  worthy  of  the 
respect  of  you  men ;  of  yours  particularly  because  you  are 
the  only  one  with  whom  I  have  talked  so  frankly  about 
myself.  But  at  every  turn  you  repulse  me,  drive  me  back. 
Nothing  that  I  do  seems  to  be  pleasing  to  you.  You  pick 
on  me,  Tom  Beck !     Why  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

He  eyed  her  calculatingly. 

"  What  would  you  think  if  I  told  you  that  it  was  because 
I  don't  like  you?" 

"  I  would  think  it  was  not  the  truth." 

He  flushed  and  this  time  his  eyes  fell  from  hers. 

"  I  would  think  just  that,  but  I  might  be  wrong."  She 
breathed  rapidly,  one  hand  on  a  gold  locket  that  was  at 
her  throat.  "  I  might  think  that  you  fear  that  becoming  my 
friend  would  be  taking  a  chance  .  .  .  but  I  might  not  want 
to  think  that. 

"  You  were  the  first  man  who  ever  dared  tell  me  just 
how  little  I  have  amounted  to.  You  are  the  first  individual 
that  ever  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  You  did  those 
things;  you  opened  my  eyes,  you  showed  me  what  real 
achievement  is. 

"Now  I'm  fighting  for  a  place.  I  have  won  one  thing: 
my  self  respect.  Now  I'm  going  to  win  another :  the  re- 
spect of  other  people  and  if  I  can  win  their  respect  I  can 
win  their  friendship. 

"  I  may  be  overconfident.  Time  will  prove  that.  But 
there  is  one  thing  I  want,  Tom  Beck,  and  that  is  your  friend- 
ship. Before  I  get  through,  and  if  I  succeed,  you  are  go- 
ing to  be  glad  to  be  my  .  .  .  friend !  " 

There  was  challenge  in  her  tone,  which,  withal  its  as- 
surance, was  sweet  and  gentle,  almost  appealing;  and  that 
combination  of  qualities  indicated  that  her  words  did  not 
express  her  whole  thought.  It  steeled  him  and  with  that 
mocking  twinkle  again  he  said : 

"  You  seem  quite  sure,  ma'am." 

"  As  sure  as  I  have  ever  been  of  anything  in  my  life !  " 

But  her  assurance  did  not  compare  with  her  desire,  for 


THE  COURTING  65 

when  he  had  gone  she  was  seized  with  the  fear  that  she  had 
said  too  much,  had  gone  too  far.  And  that  which  she  had 
boasted  would  be  hers  was  to  Jane  Hunter  a  precious  posses- 
sion. 


CHAPTER  VI 


OUTCASTS 


AT  sunset  a  girl  rider  descended  from  the  uplands 
into  the  shadows  of  Devil's  Hole.  The  big  brown 
which  carried  her  picked  his  way  slowly  down  the  treacher- 
ous trail,  nose  low,  ears  forward,  selecting  his  footing  with 
care. 

The  girl  sat  braced  back  in  her  saddle.  Her  face  was 
dark,  eyes  filled  with  a  brooding,  but  the  mouth  though 
sternly  set  showed  a  rueful  droop  at  the  corners. 

Her  mind  was  not  on  her  progress.  She  was  lost  in  a 
very  definite  consideration,  something  which  stirred  re- 
sentment, it  was  evident  from  her  face.  Finally  she  drew 
a  sharp  deep  breath  of  impatience. 

"  Oh,  get  along,  you  dromedary ! "  she  muttered  and 
rowelled  her  horse  sharply. 

The  big  beast  sprang  forward  with  a  grunt  and  went 
down  the  trail  in  long,  shaking  bounds,  even  more  intent 
on  his  footing,  than  before  and  when  they  reached  the  level 
he  crashed  through  the  brush  at  a  high  lope,  leaping  little 
washes  with  great  lunges  and  bearing  his  light  rider  swiftly 
toward  the  cabin  from  which  a  whisp  of  smoke  curled. 

The  discouraged  looking  man  stood  before  the  doorway 
watching  her  come  and  as  the  girl  swung  down,  before  the 
horse  was  well  halted,  she  flashed  a  quick  smile  at  him. 

"  I  heerd  you  comin',  daughter,  away  back  thar.  I  shore 
thought  the  devil  himself  might  've  been  after  you !  " 

He  smiled  wanly. 

"  I  seen  her  again,'*  the  girl  said  as  she  dragged  her  sad- 
dle off. 

The  man  pulled  languidly  at  his  mustache. 

66 


OUTCASTS  67 

"  She  see  you  ?  " 

"  No.  I  set  under  a  juniper  and  watched  'em  .  .  .  her 
an'  that  Beck  man." 

"  Mebby  if  you  was  to  talk  to  her  an'  get  friendly — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  no  friends  with  her !  I  hate  her 
already !  " 

She  spat  out  the  words  and  her  face  was  a  storm  of  dis- 
like. 

"  What  I  meant  .  .  .  mebby  't  would  be  easier  for  us 
if  you  played  like  you  was  friends.  Tlien  she  mightn't 
suspect." 

She  rolled  her  saddle  to  its  side  and  spread  the  blanket 
over  it. 

"  No.  I  can't  do  things  that-a  way,  Alf ," —  with  a  slow 
shake  of  her  head.  "  Mebby  't  would  get  us  more  .  .  .  but 
there's  somethin'  in  me,  in  here," — a  palm  to  her  breast  — 
*'  that  won't  let  me.  I  can  steal  her  blind  an'  only  be 
glad  about  it,  but  I  couldn't  make  up  like  I  was  her  friend 
while  I  done  it." 

"  Mebby  .  .  .  mebby  you  would  sure  enough  like  her," 
he  persisted.     "  You  ain't  never  had  no  friends  — " 

"  I'd  never  like  her,  not  while  we're  this  way," —  with  a 
gesture  to  include  the  litter  about  the  cabin.  "  She's  got 
all  that  I  want.  She's  had  all  the  things  I've  never  had. 
She's  got  clothes,  lots  of  pretty  clothes ;  she's  lived  in  towns 
an's  always  had  things  easy.  She's  got  friends  and  folks 
to  respect  her.     You  can  tell  that  by  lookin'  at  her.  .  .  . 

"  What  makes  me  that  way,  Alf  ?  What  makes  me  hate 
folks  that  have  got  the  things  I  want  ?  " 

He  pulled  on  his  mustache  again  and  scanned  the  scarlet 
sky  which  rose  above  the  purple  heights  to  the  westward. 
He  shook  his  head  rather  helplessly  and  then  looked  at  the 
girl  who  stood  before  him,  the  eagerness  of  her  query 
showing  in  her  eyes  with  an  intensity  that  was  almost  des- 
perate. 

"  Mebby  you  get  it  from  me.  I've  had  it  .  .  .  always. 
That's  all  I  have  had  .  .  .  that  an'  hard  luck." 


68  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  But  I  don't  like  it !  "  she  said  and  in  the  tone  was 
something  of  the  spirit  of  a  bewildered  little  girl.  "  I'd 
like  to  be  like  other  girls.  I'd  like  to  have  friends  .  .  . 
girl  friends,  but  the  more  I  want  'em,  the  more  I  hate  those 
that  have  'em ! 

*'  What's  the  matter  with  me,  Alf  ?  " 

"  The  same  thing  that's  the  matter  with  me,  daughter : 
hard  luck.  I've  wanted  things  so  bad  that  not  hevin'  'em 
has  soured  me.  I've  watched  other  outfits  grow  big  an' 
rich  an'  nothin'  like  that  has  ever  come  my  way.  The  big- 
ger the  rest  got,  the  harder  't  was  for  me  to  get  along 
...  an'  the  worse  I  hated  'em !  " 

There  was  no  iron  in  his  voice;  just  the  whine  of  a 
weakling,  dispirited  to  a  point  where  his  resentment  at  ill 
fortune,  even,  was  a  passive  thing. 

"  Why,  she's  got  a  fine  house  to  live  in,  an'  I'll  bet  she  al- 
ways had.  She's  never  knowed  what  it  was  to  set  out  a 
norther  in  a  wagon.  She's  never  lived  on  buckskin  an' 
frozen  spuds  all  winter.  She's  never  been  chased  from 
one  place  to  another.  .  .  . 

"  Folks  respect  her  for  what  she's  got.  Why  don't 
folks  get  respected  for  just  what  they  are?" 

There  was  pathos  in  that  query. 

The  man  answered: 

**  It  ain't  what  you  are  that  matters,  daughter.  It's 
what  you  own." 

"  You've  always  said  that,  ever  since  I  can  remember. 
Mebby  if  you  hadn't  said  it  so  much,  Alf,  I  wouldn't  feel 
like  I  do." 

He  shifted  his  footing  uneasily  and  looked  again  at  the 
flaring  sky. 

"  Well,  it's  so,"  he  whined.  "  You'd  have  found  it  out 
yourself.     I've  brung  you  up  the  best  I  knowed  how." 

"  Oh,  Alf  !  I  didn't  mean  I  was  finding  fault !  Damned 
if  you  aint  brought  me  up  good !  Why,  you're  the  only 
friend  I  got  Alf !  What'd  I  do  without  you  ?  You're  the 
only  one  I've  ever  knowed  .  .  .  real  well.     You're  the  only 


OUTCASTS  69 

one  who*s  ever  been  good  to  me !  "  She  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  looked  into  his  face  with  a  smile  of  gen- 
uine affection.  ''  Good  old  Alf !  We've  been  pals,  ain't 
we?" 

K^  nodded,  and  said : 

"  An'  if  you  stick  to  me  a  little  mite  longer,  you'll  have 
enough. 

"  You're  brighter'n  I  be,  daughter.  You  got  a  longer 
head.  Now's  your  chanct  to  use  it !  "  He  looked  about, 
somewhat  nervously,  as  if  they  might  be  overheard. 
"  Sometimes  I  get  afeerd.  Lately,  since  we've  come  here, 
IVe  been  afeerd.  It's  the  only  time  I  ever  let  anybody  else 
know  what  my  plans  was  an'  it  makes  me  feel  creepy  to 
think  somebody  else  knozvs! " 

''  'Fraid  of  what,  Alf  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Gettin'  caught  again,  an' — " 

**'  Oh,  but  you  won't !  You  can't.  Alf,  you  can't  get 
caught  an'  sent  to  jail  an'  leave  me  alone  again !  " 

She  spoke  in  a  whisper  and  gripped  her  fist  for  emphasis. 

"  I  shore  don't  want  to  leave  you,  daughter.  I  shore 
don't  want  to  get  catched.  That's  where  you  come  in  .  .  . 
helpin'  me  scheme !  I  ain't  afeerd  of  havin'  'em  come  up  on 
me  an'  git  me  red-handed  so  much  as  I  am  of  havin'  some- 
body else  know  what's  goin'  on." 

"  But  he  sent  for  us.  He  told  us  the  outfit  was  goin' 
to  be  owned  by  a  tenderfoot.  He's  as  much  in  danger  as  we, 
ain't  he  ?  " 

Her  father  nodded  slowly. 

"  You're  right  ...  in  a  way,  but  if  it  ever  come  to  a 
show-down,  I'd  be  the  one  to  hold  th'  bag,  wouldn't  I? 
That's  what  we  got  to  watch  out  for.  'Course,  it's  easy 
pickin',  with  this  gal  tryin'  to  run  things  herself,  an'  what 
with  her  brand  workin'  over  into  ourn  so  easy,  there  ain't 
many  chances.  .  .  .  Except  havin'  somebody  else  to  know." 

"If  anybody  ever  was  to  double  cross  you,  Alf,  I'd  get 
'em  if  it  was  the  last  thing  I  done !  " 


THE  LAST  STRAW 


\ 


That  threat  carried  conviction  and  her  father  looked  all 
her  with  a  rare  brand  of  admiration  in  his  eyes. 

"  Lord,  daughter,  sometimes  I  think  you  was  meant  to 
be  a  man  .  .  .  an'  a  hard  man !  Sometimes  you  almost 
scare  me,  th*  way  you  say  things !  " 

She  made  no  reply  and  he  said: 

"  All  we  got  to  do  is  go  slow.  A  brandin'  iron  has  built 
many   a    fortune,    an'   nobody   ever   had   it   any   easier   'a 


us." 


"  Do  you  think  we'll  ever  get  rich  enough,  Alf ,  to  have 
a  regular  house  ?     An'  be  respected  by  folks  ?  " 

"  Luck's  bound  to  change  sometime,"  he  muttered. 
"  Ours  has  been  bad  a  long  time  ...  a  long,  long  time." 

He  gathered  an  arm  load  of  wood  and  entered  the  cabin. 
The  girl  stood  alone  a  long  time,  watching  the  brilliant 
flowering  of  the  sky  sink  slowly  into  the  west,  drawing 
steely  night  to  cover  its  garden.  A  sharp  star  bored  its 
way  through  the  failing  light  and  stood  half  way  between 
earth  and  heaven.  A  vagrant  breeze  slid  down  the  creek, 
bringing  with  it  the  breath  of  sage,  and  afar  off  some- 
where a  cow  bawled  plaintively. 

''  She  has  'em,"  she  muttered  to  herself.  "  Friends  .  .  . 
an'  respect  ...  an'  everything  I  want.  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  me  hate  folks  so.  .  .  .'* 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    CATAMOUNT 

THREE  weeks  after  her  arrival  Jane  made  her  first 
trip  to  town  and  Beck  drove  the  pair  of  strong  bays 
which  swirled  their  buckboard  over  the  road  at  a  spanking 
trot. 

Events  had  arisen  to  prevent  their  being  together  in  the 
days  immediately  following  the  frank  discussion  of  their 
attitudes  toward  one  another  and  Jane  thought  that  she 
detected  a  feeling  of  curiosity  in  him,  as  though  he  won- 
dered just  how  she  would  go  about  forcing  him  to  like 
her.  Shrewdly,  she  avoided  personalities  and  talked  much 
of  the  ranch. 

When  they  broke  over  the  divide  and  began  the  long 
drop  into  town,  he  said : 

"  Since  you  asked  advice  from  me,  I  keep  thinkin'  up 
more,  ma'am." 

"  That's  nice.     I  need  it.     What  now  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  Dad  mentioned  that  water  in  Devil's  Hole  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  recall  it.  We've  talked  so  much  and 
about  so  many  things  that  perhaps  it's  slipped  my  mind." 

"  Maybe.     He  said  he  had." 

She  questioned  him  further  but  he  said  it  might  be  well 
for  her  to  mention  it  to  Hepburn.  "  He's  foreman,  you 
know." 

They  swung  into  the  one  street  of  Ute  Crossing  and 
stopped  before  the  bank.  As  Beck  stepped  down  to  tie 
the  team  a  girl  came  out  of  a  store  across  the  way  and 
vaulted  into  the  saddle  on  a  big  brown  horse  with  grace- 
ful ease.     It  was  the  nester's  daughter. 

Two  men  came  from  the  saloon  just  as  she  reined  her 

71 


72  THE  LAST  STRAW 

horse  about.  They  eyed  her  insolently  with  that  stare  of  a 
type  of  loafer  which  is  eloquent  of  all  that  is  despicable 
and  one  of  them,  a  short,  stodgy  man,  smiled  brazenly. 

The  girl  gave  them  one  stare,  hostility  in  her  brown 
eyes,  and  then  looked  away,  her  lips  moving  in  an  un- 
heard Tvord,  surely  of  contempt. 

Then  the  man  spoke.  It  is  not  well  to  repeat.  His  words 
were  few,  but  they  were  ugly.  The  girl  had  touched  her 
horse  with  a  spur  and  he  leaped  forward.  Just  that  one 
bound.  As  he  made  it  the  man  spoke  and  with  a  wrench 
she  set  the  brown  back  on  his  haunches  and  whirled  him 
about.  Her  face  was  suddenly  white,  her  lips  in  a  tight,  red 
line,  and  her  eyes  blazed. 

She  rode  back  to  the  men,  who  had  continued  on  their 
way,  holding  her  horse  to  a  mincing  trot,  for  he  seemed  to 
have  caught  the  tensity  of  her  mood. 

*' Did  I  hear  you  right?"  she  said  to  the  man  who  had 
spoken. 

He  stood  still  and  looked  up  with  the  rude  leer. 

"  That  depends  on  your  ears,  likely.  All  I  said  was  that 
you  — *' 

She  did  not  give  him  time  to  repeat.  Her  right  arm 
flashed  up  and  the  quirt,  slung  to  its  wrist,  hissed  angrily 
as  it  cut  back  and  with  a  stinging  crack  wound  its  thong 
about  the  man's  face. 

"  Take   that !  "   she   cried.     "  And   that  ...  and   that !  " 

At  the  first  blow  the  man  ducked  and  turned,  throwing 
up  his  hands  to  guard,  and  as  other  slashes,  relentless,  rapid, 
of  scourging  vigor,  fell  upon  his  head  and  face  and  neck, 
he  doubled  over  and  ran  for  the  shelter  of  a  store.  But 
the  girl's  wrath  was  not  satisfied.  She  sent  the  big  horse 
from  street  to  sidewalk  where  his  hoofs  thundered  on  the 
planks,  crowded  in  between  her  quarry  and  the  building 
fronts,  cutting  off  his  flight,  striking  faster,  harder,  teeth 
showing  now  between  her  drawn  lips. 

The  man  fled  into  the  street  again,  but  she  followed, 
guiding  her  horse  without  conscious  thought,  surely,   for 


THE  CATAMOUNT  73 

no  woman  roused  as  her  face  showed  she  was  roused  could 
have  had  thought  for  other  than  the  thrashing  she  ad- 
ministered. Endangered  by  the  excited  hoofs  which  were 
all  about  him  as  he  ducked  and  dodged  in  vain  to  escape,  the 
man  ran  with  hands  and  arms  close  about  his  head,  moving 
them  with  each  blow  that  fell  in  futile  attempts  to  save 
other  parts  from  the  cut  and  smart  of  that  rawhide. 

The  girl  uttered  no  word.  All  the  rancor,  all  the  rage 
he  had  roused  by  his  insult,  found  vent  in  the  whipping. 
Her  whole  lithe  torso  moved  with  each  stroke  as  she  put 
into  the  downward  swing  all  the  strength  she  could  com- 
mand, and  across  the  man's  cheek  rose  broad  red  welts,  con- 
trasting with  his  pallor  of  fright,  until  his  face  looked 
like  a  fancy  berry  pie. 

Scuttling,  dodging,  doubling,  the  man  worked  across 
the  street,  turned  back  time  and  again  but  persisting  until, 
with  a  cry  of  pain  and  desperation,  he  threw  out  one  hand, 
caught  the  bridle  and  in  the  instant's  respite  the  move  gave 
him  stumbled  to  the  other  sidewalk,  across  it  and  sprawled 
through  the  swinging  doors  of  the  saloon  he  had  left  mo- 
ments before. 

The  horse  came  to  a  halt  with  a  slam  against  the  flimsy 
front  of  the  building.  The  girl  drew  back  her  quirt  as  for 
a  final  blow,  but  the  man,  regaining  his  feet,  fled  through 
the  bar  room  and  disappeared.  She  dropped  her  hand  to 
the  top  of  the  door,  pushed  it  open  and  held  it  so,  peering 
darkly  into  the  room. 

People  had  come  into  the  street  to  watch.  There  had 
been  excited  shouts  and  a  scream  or  two,  but  as  the  girl 
sat  looking  into  the  place  a  quick  silence  shut  down  and 
when  she  spoke  her  voice,  trembling  with  emotion  but 
scarcely  raised  above  its  normal  pitch,  was  easily  heard. 

"  I've  took  a  lot  from  men,"  she  said,  '*  ever  since  I  was 
a  kid.  When  I  come  into  this  country  I  thought  maybe 
I'd  get  a  little  respect  .  .  .  for  bein'  just  a  girl.  I  didn't 
get  it  ...  I've  got  to  take  it. 

"If  that  man's  a  sample  of  the  kind  you've  got  here, 


74  THE  LAST  STRAW 

you're  a  nest  of  skunks.  And  you  talk  easy  hereafter,  every 
one  of  you,  because  so  long  as  I've  got  a  quirt  and  an  arm,  I'll 
hide  you  till  you're  raw  if  you  make  any  breaks  like  he  did. 
Keep  that  in  mind !  " 

She  released  her  hold  on  the  door;  it  swung  outward 
smartly  and  as  it  struck  the  horse  he  sprang  sideways, 
wheeled,  and  clearing  the  shallow  gutter  with  a  lunge,  swung 
down  the  street  at  a  gallop. 

When  she  passed  Jane  Hunter,  who  stood  amazed  in  her 
buckboard,  tears  showed  in  the  girl's  eyes,  but  her  back  was 
as  erect,  her  shoulders  as  trimly  set  as  though  no  great 
emotion  was  surging  in  her  heart. 

"  She's  quite  a  catamount,  I'll  guess,"  said  Tom  Beck 
as  he  gave  the  knot  in  the  tie  rope  a  securing  tug  and  turned 
to  face  Jane. 

His  eyes  were  fired  with  admiration. 

"  But  a  girl  — " 

"  She  was  magnificent !  " 

It  was  Dick  Hilton  who  had  interrupted  with  the  words. 
Beck  looked  at  him  and  the  enthusiasm  which  had  been  in 
his  face  faded.  He  eyed  the  Easterner  briefly  and  turned 
to  adjust  a  buckle  on  the  harness. 

"  And  only  a  girl !  "  exclaimed  Jane  under  her  breath. 

Dick,  did  you  see  it  all  ?  " 

"  A    typical   Western   girl,    I    should    say,"    he    replied. 

Your.  .  .  .  Your  neighbor  and  associate?  Your  com- 
panion, Jane  ?  "  he  asked.  "  The  sort  you  want  to  cast  your 
lot  with?" 

"  And  a  moment  ago  you  thought  her  magnificent !  "  she 
taunted  as  she  stepped  down  and  offered  him  her  hand. 

*'  rU  meet  you  in,  say,  two  hours,  ma'am,"  Beck  said. 

"  Very  well ;  right  here,"  she  replied,  and  he  left  her 
as  she  turned  to  meet  Hilton's  unpleasant  smile. 

They  began  the  return  trip  shortly  after  noon.  Hilton 
had  been  with  Jane  when  Tom  returned  and  he  stood  be- 
side the  buckboard  talking  some  minutes  after  Beck  had 


t( 


t( 


THE  CATAMOUNT  75 

picked  up  the  reins  and  was  ready  to  commence  the  drive. 
Occasionally  Dick's  eyes  wandered  from  Jane  to  the  other 
man's  face  but  Tom  sat,  knees  crossed,  idly  toying  with  the 
whip,  as  indifferent  to  what  was  being  said  as  if  the  others 
were  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  Hilton  made  an  obvious 
effort  to  exclude  the  Westerner  but  Beck's  disregard  of 
him  was  as  genuine  as  it  was  evident.  He  sat  patiently,  with 
an  easy  sense  of  superiority  and  the  contrast  was  not  lost 
on  Jane  Hunter. 

The  town  was  far  behind  and  below  them,  a  mere  cluster 
of  miniature  buildings,  before  either  spoke.  Then  it  was 
Jane. 

"  That  girl.  .  .  .  There  was  something  splendid  about  her, 
wasn't  there  ?  " 

**  There  was,"  he  agreed.  ''  She  sure  expressed  her  opin- 
ion of  men  in  general !  " 

*'  A  newcomer,  evidently." 

Beck  nodded.  "  Came  in  soon  after  you  did,  with  her 
father,  it  looked  like." 

*'  And  she  wins  the  respect  of  strange  men  by  blows ! " 
she  said. 

**  He  deserved  all  he  got,  didn't  he  ?  "  Besk  asked,  smil- 
ing. **  I  like  to  see  a  bad  hombrc  like  that  get  set  down 
by  a  woman.  There's  something  humiliating  about  it  that 
counts  a  lot  more  than  the  whippin'  she  gave  him." 

'*  But  wouldn't  it  have  spoken  more  for  the  chivalry  of 
the  country  if  some  man  had  done  it  for  her?" 

"  That's    likely.     But    there    ain't   much    chivalry    here, 


ma'am." 


"  And  am  I  so  fortunate  as  to  have  enjoyed  the  pro- 
tection of  what  httle  there  is?" 

He  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"  I  had  to  come  clear  to  Ute  Crossing  to  learn  how  one 
man  defended  me  from  the  insult  of  another." 

He  stirred  uneasily  on  the  seat. 

'*  That  was  nothin',"  he  growled.  "  I'd  been  waiting  for 
a  chance  to  land  on  Webb  for  a  long  time." 


76  THE  LAST  STRAW 

He  did  not  look  at  her  and  his  manner  had  none  of  its 
usual  bluntness;  clearly  he  was  evasive  and,  more,  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  First,  I  want  to  thank  you,"  Jane  said  after  she  had 
looked  at  him  a  moment.  "  You  don't  know  how  a  woman 
such  as  I  am  can  feel  about  a  thing  like  that.  I  think  it  was 
the  finest  thing  a  man  has  ever  done  for  me  .  .  .  and  many 
men  have  been  trying  to  do  fine  things  for  me  for  a  long 
time." 

She  was  deeply  touched  and  her  voice  was  not  just  steady 
but  when  Beck  did  not  answer,  just  looked  straight  ahead 
with  his  tell-tale  flush  deepening,  a  delight  crept  into  her 
eyes  and  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth  quirked. 

"  Besides,  it  was  a  great  deal  to  expect  of  a  man  who 
has  made  up  his  mind  not  to  like  me !  " 

They  had  topped  the  divide  and  the  sorrels  had  been 
fighting  the  bits.  As  she  spoke  Tom  gave  them  their  heads 
and  the  team  swept  the  buckboard  forward  with  a  banging 
and  clatter  that  would  have  drowned  words  anyhow,  but 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  reply  gave  Jane  a  feeling  of  jubila- 
tion. Her  thrust  had  pricked  his  reserve,  showing  it  to  be 
not  wholly  genuine ! 

Dick  Hilton  had  told  her  of  the  encounter  Beck  had 
had  with  Webb,  told  it  jeeringly  as  he  attempted  to  im- 
press her  with  the  distasteful  phases  of  her  environment. 
He  had  failed  in  that.  He  had  impressed  her  only  with  the 
fact  that  Tom  Beck  had  gone  out  of  his  way,  had  taken  a 
chance,  to  protect  her  standing.  Others  of  her  men  had 
heard  her  insulted,  men  from  other  ranches  had  been  there, 
but  of  them  all  Beck  had  been  her  champion. 

And  it  was  Beck  who  had  bullied  her,  had  doubted  her 
in  the  face  of  her  best  efforts  to  convince  him  of  fitness ! 
He  had  even  challenged  her  to  make  herself  his  friend ! 

She  had  believed  before  she  came  into  those  hills  that  she 
knew  men  of  all  sorts  but  now  she  had  found  something 
new.     Here  was  a  man  who,  in  her  presence,  would  plot  to 


THE  CATAMOUNT  77 

humiliate  her  and  yet  when  ^he  could  not  see  or  hear  his 
loyalty  and  his  belief  in  her  were  outstanding. 

And  what  was  it,  she  asked  herself,  that  made  her  pulse 
leap  and  her  throat  tighten?  It  was  not  wholly  gratitude. 
It  was  not  merely  because  he  resisted  her  efforts  to  win  his 
open  regard.  Those  things  were  potent  influences,  surely, 
but  there  was  something  more  fundamental  about  him,  a 
basic  quality  which  she  had  not  before  encountered  in  men  ; 
she  could  not  analyze  it  but  daily  she  had  sensed  its  growing 
strength.     Now  she  felt  it  .  .  .  felt,  but  could  not  identify. 

Two-Bits  opened  the  gate  for  them  and  Tom  carried  her 
bundles  into  the  house. 

At  the  corral,  as  Beck  unharnessed,  the  homely  cow 
puncher  said : 

"  Gosh,  Tommy,  how'd  it  seem,  ridin'  all  the  way  to  town 
an'  back  with  her  settin'  up  beside  you  ?  " 

"  Just  about  like  you  was  there,  Two-Bits,  only  we  didi't 
swear  quite  so  much.'' 

"  I  got  lots  of  respect  for  you,  Tommy,  but  I  think  you're 
a  damned  liar." 

And  Beck  chuckled  to  himself  as  though,  perhaps,  the 
other  had  been  right. 

"  Two  weeks  now  since  he  wrote,"  Two-Bits  sighed. 
"  He  shore  ought  to  be  comin'.  Gosh,  Tom,  but  he's  a 
bright  man !  " 

Again  that  night  Jane  Hunter  looked  from  a  window  after 
the  lights  in  the  bunk  house  had  gone  out  and  the  place 
was  quiet,  to  see  a  tall,  silent  figure  move  slowly  beneath 
the  cottonwoods,  watching  the  house,  pausing  at  times  as 
if  listening.  Then  it  went  back  through  the  shadows  more 
rapidly,  as  though  satisfied  that  all  was  well. 

Many  times  she  had  watched  this  but  tonight  it  seemed  of 
greater  significance  than  ever  before.  He  denied  her  his 
friendship ;  he  had  made  Webb  his  sworn  enemy  by  de- 
fending her  (she  had  not  told  him  that  part  of  the  tale  she 
heard  in  Ute  Crossing)  and  yet  disclaimed  any  great  inter- 


78  THE  LAST  STRAW 

est  in  her  as  a  motive.  Still,  he  patrolled  her  dooryard 
at  night ! 

A  sudden  impulse  to  do  something  that  would  make 
him  give  her  that  consideration  in  her  presence  which  he 
gave  before  others  came  to  life.  His  attitude  suddenly  an- 
gered her  beyond  reason  and  she  felt  her  body  shaking  as 
tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  The  great  thing  which  she  de- 
sired was  just  there,  just  out  of  reach  and  the  fact  exas- 
perated her,  grew,  became  a  fever  until,  on  her  knees  at  the 
window,  hammering  the  sill  with  her  fists,  she  cried : 

"  Tom  Beck  you're  going  to  love  me !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AND   NOW,    THE    CLERGY 

TWO-BITS  was  the  last  into  the  bunkhouse  the  follow- 
ing evening.  He  had  ridden  his  Nigger  horse  in 
from  the  westward  hills  and  had  not  come  through  the  big 
gate  so  not  until  he  stepped  across  the  threshold  were 
the  others  aware  of  his  presence. 

"  Here  he  is !  "  said  a  rider  from  down  the  creek  who 
was  stopping  for  the  night  and  the  group  in  the  center  of  the 
low  room  broke  apart. 

''  Two-Bits,  here's  your  brother,"  said  Curtis. 

A  small  man  stood  beside  him.  He  wore  a  green,  bat- 
tered derby  hat,  band  and  binding  of  which  were  sadly 
frayed.  He  wore  spectacles,  steel  rimmed,  over  searching 
gray  eyes.  He  was  unshaven.  A  celluloid  collar,  buttoned 
behind,  made  an  overly  large  cylinder  for  his  wrinkled  neck. 
He  wore  a  frock  coat,  also  green  with  age,  the  pockets  of 
which  bulged  and  sagged  and  their  torn  corners  spoke  of 
long  overloading.  His  overalls,  patched  and  newly  washed, 
were  tucked  into  boots  with  run-down  heels.  In  his  hand  he 
held  a  fountain  pen. 

At  the  entrance  of  Two-Bits  all  talk  had  ceased ;  at  Curtis* 
introduction,  Two-Bits  stopped.  He  swallowed,  setting  his 
Adam's  apple  in  sharp  vibration.  He  took  off  his  hat.  He 
flushed  and  his  mild  eyes  wavered.  Then  he  advanced 
across  the  room,  extending  a  limp  hand  and  said  in  a  thin, 
embarrassed  voice : 

'*  Please  to  meet  you.  Mister  Beal." 

Tom  Beck  bit  his  lips  but  one  or  two  of  the  others 
laughed  outright ;  they  ceased,  however,  when  the  Reverend 

79 


8o  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Beal,  in  a  voice  that  was  tremendously  deep  and  impressive 
for  such  a  small  man,  said: 

"  My  brother,  I  extend  to  you  the  right  hand  of  fellow- 
ship!  It  is  a  deed  of  God  that  enables  me  to  look  once 
more  into  your  beloved  face  after  these  years  of  separa- 
tion. Givt  me  your  hand,  brother.  May  the  blessings  of 
Heaven  descend  upon  and  abide  with  thee !  " 

He  shook  Two-Bits'  paw,  looking  up  earnestly  into  his 
face,  while  the  blushing  became  more  furious. 

"  Marvelous  are  the  ways  of  Providence !  "  he  boomed. 
*'  Let  us  give  thanks." 

He  doffed  his  hat,  and  still  clinging  to  Two-Bits'  hand, 
lowered  his  head. 

"  Almighty  Father,  whose  blessings  are  diverse  and  mani- 
fold, we,  brothers  of  the  flesh,  give  our  thanks  to  Thee  for 
bringing  about  this  reunion  on  earth.  We  realize,  oh  Lord, 
that  these  mundane  moments  are  but  brief  forerunners  of 
greater  joys  that  are  to  come,  that  they  are  but  passing 
pleasures;  but  joy  here  below  is  a  rare  thing  and  from  this 
valley  of  tears  and  sin  we  lift  our  hearts  and  our  voices  in 
thanks  that  such  blessings  have  been  visited  upon  us  by  Thy 
blessed  magnanimity !  " 

He  lifted  his  head  and  honest  tears  showed  behind  his 
spectacles. 

"  And  now,  brother," —  in  a  brusk,  business-like  man- 
ner, **  you,  too,  will  be  interested  in  this  article  which  I 
was  about  to  demonstrate  to  the  congregation." 

He  replaced  his  hat  with  a  dead  punk,  held  the  pen  aloft 
in  gesture,  drew  a  pad  of  paper  from  one  of  his  sagging 
pockets  and  continued : 

"  Made  of  India  rubber,  combined  in  a  secret  process  with 
Belgian  talc  and  Swedish,  water-proof  shellac,  this  pen  will 
withstand  the  acid  action  of  the  strongest  inks.  It  is  self- 
filling,  durable,  compact,  artistic  in  design.  The  clip  pre- 
vents its  falling  from  the  pocket  and  consequent  loss. 

"  The  point  is  of  the  finest,  specially  selected  California, 
eighteen  carat  gold.     It  was  designed  by  that  peerless  in- 


AND  NOW,  THE  CLERGY  81 

ventor,  Thomas  Edison.  Its  overy  feature,  from  the  safety 
shank  to  the  velvet  tip,  is  covered  by  patents  granted  by 
the  authority  of  this  great  repubhc ! 

"  It  does  not  leak  !  " —  shaking  it  vigorously.  "  It  does 
not  fail  to  flow.  It  does  not  scratch  or  prick.  Follow  me 
closely,  men ;  watch  every  move." 

With  facility  he  guided  the  point  across  the  paper  in  great 
flourishes,  sketching  a  crudely  designed  bird  on  the  wing. 

"  See  ?  See  what  can  be  done  with  this  invention  ?  How 
can  any  mature  man  or  woman  do  without  this  article? 
Such  an  article ! 

''  This,  men,  is  a  three  dollar  commodity,  but  for  the 
purposes  of  advertising  I  am  permitted  by  the  firm  to  charge 
you  —  Two-fifty?  No!  Two  dollars?  No!  One  fifty? 
NO !  For  the  sum  of  one  dollar,  American  money,  E 
Pluribus  Unum  and  In  God  We  Trust,  I  will  place  this  in- 
valuable article  in  your  possession.  One  dollar,  men !  One 
dollar! 

'*  But  wait.  Further  " —  diving  into  another  pocket,  "  we 
will  give  away  absolutely  free  of  charge  to  every  purchaser 
one  of  these  celebrated  key  rings  and  chains,  made  of  a  new 
conglomerate  called  white  metal,  guaranteed  not  to  rust, 
tarnish  or  break  except  under  excessive  strain.  Keeps  your 
keys  safe  and  always  handy.  Free,  with  each  and  every  in- 
dividual purchase ! 

"  Still  more !  " —  making  another  dive  into  the  inexhaust- 
able  pockets  — "  Another  article  used  by  every  gentleman 
and  lady.  A  hand  mirror,  a  magnifying  hand  mirror. 
Carry  it  in  your  pocket,  have  it  always  handy  for  the  thou- 
sand and  one  uses  to  which  it  may  be  put. 

''  Think !  This  magnificent  fountain  pen,  this  key-ring 
and  chain,  this  pocket  mirror,  a  collection  which  regularly 
would  retail  for  from  four  to  five  dollars,  are  yours  for 
one  dollar.  .  .  . 

"  Now,  who's  first?" 

Two-Bits  who  had  watched  and  listened  with  a  growing 
amazement,  mouth  open,  Adam's  apple  jumping,  was  roused. 


82  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  I  am,  Mister  Beal,"  he  said  eagerly,  digging  in  a  pocket 
for  the  money. 

**  Ah,  brother,  part  of  being  a  Beal  is  knowing  a  bargain ! 
Who  else,  now  ?  " 

He  sold  six  of  the  pens  before  the  big  bell  at  the  ranch 
house  summoned  the  men  to  supper;  then  slipped  his 
stock  back  in  the  pockets  of  that  clerical  looking  garment 
and,  grasping  Two-Bits  by  the  arm,  beaming  up  into  his 
face,  stumped  along  by  his  side. 

At  the  table  he  ate  and  talked,  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
doing  both  with  astonishing  ease.  No  matter  how  great 
the  excess  of  food  in  his  mouth,  he  was  still  able  to  articulate, 
and  no  matter  how  rapidly  he  talked,  he  could  always  thrust 
more  nourishment  between  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  it  warms  the  heart  of  a  seeker  after  strays  from 
the  herds  of  the  Master  to  look  upon  the  bright,  honest 
faces  of  stalwart  men !  "  he  cried,  brandishing  his  fork  and 
helping  himself  to  more  syrup  with  the  other  hand. 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  it  is  written,  and  I  know 
that  when  in  the  presence  of  such  men  as  you,  I  am  among 
the  blessed  of  the  Father !  I  can  see  integrity,  devotion  to 
duty,  uprightness  and  honor  in  all  your  faces.  Or,  that  is, 
in  most  of  your  faces.  What  contrast !  " —  heedless  of  the 
uproar  his  qualification  of  a  broad  statement  caused. 
"  What  contrast  to  the  iniquitous  ways  of  those  who  dwell 
in  the  tents  of  the  wicked. 

*'  Why,  brethren,  only  last  night  I  stood  in  the  hotel  in 
yonder  settlement  and  watched  and  listened  to  the  cries  of 
a  lost  soul,  a  young  man  sunk  hopelessly  in  sin.  He  was 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  but  he  had  not  yet  felt  the 
heavy  hand  of  a  slowly- roused  God,  had  not  yet  become 
the  Prodigal.  He  had  tasted  of  the  wine  when  it  was  red 
and  out  of  his  mouth  flowed  much  evil. 

"  A  man  possessed  of  a  devil,  I  am  sure,  and  I  spoke 
to  him,  asking  if  he  did  not  desire  to  seek  redemption  in 
the  straight  and  narrow  way  which  leads  to  the  only  right- 
eous life. 


AND  NOW,  THE  CLERGY  83 

" '  Righteousness,  hell ! '  he  shouted  at  me,  his  face  black 
with  ungodly  thoughts. 

"  '  That's  what  I  want  less  of :  righteousness !  That's 
what's  raised  hell  in  me ! ' 

"  Oh,  it  was  terrible,  brothers !  He  drank  continually 
and  finally  they  carried  him  off  to  bed,  cursing  and  swear- 
ing, cherishing  bitterness  in  his  heart,  which  is  against  the 
word  of  the  Almighty.  A  definite  wrong  was  in  his  mind, 
I  was  led  to  presume,  for  he  cried  again  and  again :  '  I'll 
break  her  if  it's  the  last  thing  I  do !  I'll  ruin  her  and  bring 
her  back !  * 

"  I  tell  you,  my  fellow  men,  I  prayed  fervently  for  that 
lost  soul  through  the  night.  Something  heavy  is  upon  him, 
something  tremendous." 

'*  Likely  some  of  that  high-pressure  booze,"  remarked 
one,  at  which  everybody  except  the  Reverend  and  Two-Bits 
laughed. 

"  Goin'  to  stay  long?"  Oliver  asked. 

"  Alas,  I  am  not  my  own  master.  My  feet  are  guided 
from  up  Yonder.  To  tarry  with  my  dear  brother  is  my 
most  devout  prayer  and  wish,  but  we  have  no  promise  of 
the  morrow.  I  may  remain  in  your  midst  a  day,  a  month. 
I  cannot  tell  when  the  call  will  come." 

Tom  Beck  had  watched  with  a  glimmer  in  his  eye  until 
the  newcomer  told  of  the  scene  in  the  hotel.  It  was  not 
difficult  for  him  to  identify  the  sin  beset  young  man  as  Hilton 
and  at  that  he  became  less  attentive  to  the  garrulous  talk 
of  the  itinerant  preacher-peddler.  In  fact,  he  gave  no  heed 
at  all  until,  returned  to  the  bunk  house,  the  Reverend  made 
a  point  of  seeking  out  Dad  Hepburn  and  talking  to  him  in 
confidence. 

Dad's  bed  was  directly  across  from  Tom's  and  he  could 
not  help  hearing. 

"  I  waited  to  get  you  alone,"  Beal  said,  dropping  his 
elocutionary  manner,  "  because  what  other's  don't  know 
won't  hurt  'em,  and  so  forth.     But  just  before  I  was  leav- 


84  THE  LAST  STRAW 

ing  town,  saddling  my  mare  in  the  corral,  I  heard  two  men 
talking  and  it  may  interest  you. 

"  This  outfit  uses  the  H  C  on  horses  as  well  as  cattle, 
don't  it?" 

"  That's  right." 

"Exactly!  One  of  the  men  said  (they  didn't  know  I 
was  near,  understand).  '  So  there's  eight  more  H  C  horses 
gone  west.'  And  the  other  one  said,  '  Yes,  they  was  camped 
at  the  mouth  of  Twenty  Mile  this  mornin'.  It's  easy.  They 
had  the  horses  in  a  box  gulch,  with  a  tree  down  across  the 
mouth,  most  natural.' 

"  Have  you  sold  any  horses  lately  ?  " 

Hepburn  glanced  about  cautiously  and  just  before  he 
turned  to  reply  his  eyes  met  Beck's  gaze,  cold  and  hard 
this  time,  flinging  an  unmistakable  challenge  at  him. 

*'  Not  a  horse,"  he  mumbled.  '*  They're  sneaking  out  of 
the  country  with  'em.  Tom,  come  here," — with  a  jerk  of 
his  head.  Beck  walked  over  and  sat  down.  "  Did  you 
hear  what  the  Reverend  says  ?  "  Dad  asked.  "  About  the 
horses  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  I  ain't  surprised.     Are  you  ?  " 

His  eyes,  again  amused,  bored  into  Hepburn's  face  with 
the  query: 

"  No,  but  — " 

The  sharp  batter  of  running  hoofs  cut  him  short.  The 
whole  assemblage  was  listening.  The  rider  stopped  short 
at  the  gate,  they  heard  it  creak  and  a  moment  later  he 
came  across  toward  the  bunk  house  at  a  high  lope.  They 
heard  him  speak  gruffly  to  the  horse,  heard  the  creak  of 
leather  as  he  swung  down  and  then  jingling  spurs  marked 
his  further  progress  toward  the  door. 

It  was  Henry  Riley,  owner  of  the  Bar  Z  ranch,  thirty 
miles  down  Coyote  creek.  A  cattleman  of  the  old  order,  a 
man  not  given  to  haste  or  excitement.  His  appearance 
caught  the  interest  of  all,  for  he  was  breathing  fast  and 
his  eyes  blazed. 


AND  NOW,  THE  CLERGY  85 

"  Where's  Dad  ?  "  he  asked  and  Hepburn,  rising,  said : 
"  Here.     What's  the  matter,  Henry?  " 

"  Who's  this  nester  in  Devil's  Hole  ?  "  Riley  asked. 

*'  Why  ...  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  nester  there." 

Dad  answered  hesitatingly  and  Beck  scraped  one  foot 
on  the  floor. 

"  Well,  there  is.  Guess  we've  all  been  asleep.  He's  there, 
with  a  girl,  and  they  filed  on  that  water  yesterday.  That 
shuts  your  outfit  and  mine  out  of  the  best  range  in  the 
country  if  he  fences,  which  he  will !  If  they're  goin'  to  dry 
farm  our  steers  of¥  the  range  we'd  better  look  alive." 

"  I'll  be  damned,"  muttered  Hepburn.  "  That  was  one 
of  the  next  things  I  was  goin'  to  have  her  do,  file  on  that 
water." 

He  scratched  his  head  and  turned.  Beck  was  waiting 
for  him  to  face  about. 

"  Now,"  he  said  slowly,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

His  eyes  flashed  angrily  and  any  who  watched  could  see 
the  challenge. 

Silently  Hepburn  reached  for  his  belt  and  gun,  strapped 
it  on,  dug  in  his  blankets  for  another  revolver  and  shoved 
it  into  his  shirt. 

'*'  First,"  he  said,  "  I'm  goin'  after  those  horses.  That 
ain't  too  late  to  be  remedied.  No,  I'll  go  alone !  "  as  Tom 
stepped  toward  his  bunk  where  his  gun  hung. 

Hepburn  gave  Beck  stare  for  stare  as  though  defying 
him  now  to  impute  his  motives  and  strode  out  into  a  fine 
rain,  drawing  on  his  slicker. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE   DESTROYER 


HILE  the  men  were  eating  that  night  another  rider 
had  come  to  H  C.  He  entered  slowly,  tied  his  horse 
to  the  fence  and  walked  down  along  the  cottonwoods  toward 
the  house.  He  stood  outside  a  time,  looking  through  the 
window  at  Jane  whose  golden  head  was  bowed  in  the  mel- 
low glow  of  the  student  lamp  as  she  worked  at  her  desk. 

He  stepped  lightly  across  the  veranda  and  rapped;  at  her 
bidding  he  entered. 

"  Dick !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  he  said,  with  forced  attempt  at  light- 
ness. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  Why  come  at  this  time  of 
day  ?  " —  rising  and  walking  toward  him. 

"  I  rode  a  horse,  and  I  came  because  I  couldn't  stay  away 
from  you  any  longer." 

She  looked  at  him,  head  tilted  a  bit  to  one  side,  and 
genuine  regret  was  in  her  slow  smile. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  don't  look  or  feel  like  that !  I'm  glad  to 
see  you,  but  I  zvish  you'd  stop  thinking  and  talking  and  look- 
ing like  that.  I  don't  like  to  have  you  so  dreadfully  de- 
termined .  .  .  when  it's  no  use. 

"All  this  way  to  see  me!  And  did  you  eat?  Of  course 
you  didn't !  " 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  he  protested  glumly. 

"  But  you  must." 

She  seized  on  his  need  as  welcome  distraction  from  the 
love  making,  which  undoubtedly  was  his  purpose.  She 
took  his  coat  and  hat,  placed  cigarettes  for  him  and  went 
to  the  kitchen  to  help  Carlotta  prepare  a  quick  meal.     She 

S6 


THE  DESTROYER  87 

served  it  herself,  going  to  pains  to  make  it  attractive,  and 
finally  seated  herself  across  the  table  from  Hilton,  who 
made  a  pretense  of  eating. 

She  talked,  a  bit  feverishly,  perhaps,  but  compelled  him 
to  stick  to  matters  far  from  personal  and  after  he  had  fin- 
ished his  scant  meal  and  lighted  a  cigarette  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  smiled  easily  at  her.  It  was  a  good  smile, 
open  and  frank  and  gentle,  but  when  it  died  that  nasty  light 
came  back;  as  though  the  smile  showed  the  man  Jane 
Hunter  had  tolerated  for  long,  masking  the  man  she  now 
tried  to  put  from  her. 

"If  your  enthusiasm  were  for  anything  else,  I'd  like  it," 
he  said. 

"  But  it  isn't.     Why  can't  you  like  it  as  it  is  ?  " 

He  ignored  the  question. 

"Busy,  Jane?" 

"  As  the  devil  on  Forty-Second  street." 

"  And  still  think  it's  worth  while  ?  " 

"  The  only  worth-while  thing  I've  ever  done ;  more  worth 
while  every  day.  So  much  worth  while  that  I'm  made  over 
from  the  heart  out  and  I've  been  here  less  than  a  month !  " 

"  After  taking  a  bottle  of  your  bitters  I  am  now  able  to 
support  my  husband  and  children,"  he  quoted  ironically. 

"Laugh  if  you  must," — with  a  lift  of  her  shoulders. 
"  I  mean  it." 

"  You  get  along  with  the  men,  Jane  ?  " 

*'  Very  well  so  far.  They're  fine,  real,  honest  men.  I 
like  them  all.  There  are  some  things  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand yet,"  examining  a  finger  nail  closely.  "  I  haven't 
made  up  m.y  mind  that  my  foreman  can  be  trusted  or  that 
he's  as  honest  as  he  seems  to  be." 

"The  fellow  who  was  with  you  yesterday?" 

"  No ;  Dad  Hepburn.  An  older  man.  He.  .  .  .  He 
seems  to  evade  me  some  times." 

Hilton  watched  her  closely.  She  was  one  of  the  few 
women  he  knew  who  had  been  able  to  judge  men;  he  made 
a  mental  note  of  the  name  she  had  mentioned. 


88  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  talk  became  desultory  and  Dick's  eyes  clung  more 
closely  to  Jane's  face,  their  hard,  bright  light  accentuated. 
It  began  to  rain  and  Jane,  hearing,  looked  out. 

"  Raining !  You  can't  go  back  tonight.  You'll  have  to 
stay  here.  Mr.  Hepburn  can  fix  you  up  with  the  rest  of 
the  men." 

He  smiled  peculiarly  at  that,  for  it  cut.  He  made  no 
comment  beyond  expressing  the  belief  that  a  wetting,  since 
it  was  not  cold,  would  do  no  harm.  She  knew  that  he 
did  not  mean  that  and  contrasted  his  evasion  with  Beck's 
quiet  candor. 

"What's  the  idea  of  the  locket?"  he  asked  and  Jane 
looked  down  at  the  trinket  with  which  she  had  been  toy- 
ing.    "  You  never  were  much  addicted  to  ornaments." 

She  laughed  with  an  expression  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand. 

''  Something  is  in  there  which  is  very  dear  to  me,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  wear  it  as  an  orn?.tnent ;  as  a  talisman, 
rather.  I'm  getting  to  be  quite  dependent  on  it."  Her 
manner  was  outwardly  light  but  at  bottom  was  a  serious- 
ness which  she  did  not  wholly  cover. 

"  Excuse  me  .  .  .  for  intruding  on  privacies,"  he  said 
bitterly.  Then,  after  a  moment :  ''  The  picture  of  some 
cow-puncher  lover,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  No,  though  that  wouldn't  be  unreasonable,"  she  replied. 
*'  Such  things  have  happened  in  — " 

"  Let's  cut  this !  "  he  said  savagely,  breaking  in  on  her 
and  sitting  forward.     *'  Let's  quit  these  absurd  banalities. 

"  You  know  why  I  came  here.  You  know  what's  in  my 
mind.  There's  a  job  before  me  that  gets  bigger  every  day; 
the  least  you  can  do  is  to  help  me." 

"In  what?" 

"  Tell  me  what  I  must  do  to  make  you  understand  that  I 
love  you." 

He  leaned  across  the  table  intently.     The  girl  laughed. 

"  Prove  to  me  first  that  two  and  two  -make  six !  " 

"Meaning?" 


THE  DESTROYER  89 

"  That  it  can't  be  done." 

"  It's  the  first  time  you've  ever  been  that  certain." 

"  The  first  time  I've  ever  expressed  the  certainty,  per- 
haps.    Things  happen,  Dick.     I  progress." 

"  Do  you  mean  such  an  impossible  thing  as  that  there  is 
someone  else  ?  " 

**  Another   question   which   you  have   no   right   to   ask." 

*'  Jane,  look  at  me !     Are  you  wholly  insane  ?  " 

**  No,  but  as  I  look  back  I  think  I  have  been  a  little  oflF, 
perhaps." 

*'  But  you're  putting  behind  you  everything  that  is  of 
you," —  his  color  rising  with  his  voice  as  her  secure  con- 
viction maddened  him.  ''  The  life  that  is  yours  by  nature 
and  training.  You're  going  blindly  ahead  into  something 
you  don't  know,  among  people  who  are  not  yours !  " 

He  became  suddenly  tense,  as  though  the  passion  which 
he  had  repressed  until  that  moment  swept  through  him  with 
a  mighty  urge.     His  breath  slipped  out  in  a  long  sigh. 

"  You  are  repeatedly  mistaken,  Dick.  I  have  just  found 
my  people." 

''  Your  people !  "  he  scoffed. 

She  nodded. 

"  '  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,'  you  know,  and  the  two 
shall  never  meet.  It  must  be  true,  and,  if  so,  I  have  never 
been  of  the  east.  I  never  felt  comfortable  there,  with  the 
lies  and  the  shams  and  the  hypocricies  that  were  all  about 
us.     Out  here,  I  do. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why  you  and  I  ,  .  ."  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders  again.  *'  You  see,  Dick,  I  have  cast  my  lot 
here.  The  East  is  gone,  for  me ;  it  never  can  pass  for  you. 
I  have  found  my  people ;  they  are  my  people,  their  Gods  are 
my  Gods.  I  have  a  strength,  a  peace  of  mind,  self  respect, 
ambitions  and  natural,  real  impulses  that  I  never  knew  be- 
fore.    I  feel  that  I  have  come  home !  " 

He  laughed  dryly,  but  she  went  on  as  though  she  had  not 
heard : 

You  have  never  understood  me ;  you  never  can  hope 


<< 


go  THE  LAST  STRAW 

to  now.  There's  a  gulf  between  us,  Dick,  that  will  never 
be  bridged.  I  am  sorry,  in  a  way.  I  never  can  love  you  and 
I  hate  to  see  you  wasting  your  desires  on  me. 

"  I  have  thought  about  you  a  great  deal  lately.  You  are 
missing  all  that  is  fine  in  life  and  because  of  that  I  am  sorry 
for  you.  We  used  to  have  one  thing  in  common :  the  lack 
of  worthy  ideals.  I  have  wiped  out  that  lack  and  I  wish 
you  might ;  I  truly  wish  that,  Dick !  And  it  seems  possible 
to  me  that  you  may,  just  because  you  are  here  where  reali- 
ties count.  There's  an  incentive  in  the  atmosphere  and 
I  do  hope  it  gets  into  your  blood. 

'*  It  is  all  so  nonsensical,  the  thing  you  are  doing,  so 
foolish.  I  suppose  I  am  the  only  thing  you  have  ever 
wanted  that  you  couldn't  get  and  that's  what  stimulates  your 
want.     It's  not  love,  Dick. 

*'  How  do  you  know  ? 

*'  I  have  learned  things  in  these  weeks,"  with  a  wistful 
smile.  "  I  have  learned  about  .  .  .  men,  for  one  thing.  I 
have  found  an  honesty,  an  honor,  a  simple  directness,  which 
I  have  never  known  before." 

He  rose  and  leaned  his  fists  on  the  table. 

*'  You  mean  you've  found  a  lover?  " 

She  met  his  eyes  frankly. 

"  Again  I  say,  you  have  no  right  to  ask  that  question.  In 
the  second  place,  I  am  not  yet  sure." 

His  mouth  drew  down  in  a  leer. 

"  So  that's  it,  eh  ?  So  you  would  turn  me  away  for  some 
rough-neck  who  murders  the  English  language  and  smells 
of  horse.  You'd  let  a  thing  like  that  overwhelm  you  in  a 
few  days  when  a  civilized  human  has  failed  after  years  of 
trying ! 

"  I've  tried  to  treat  you  with  respect.  I've  tried  to  be 
gentle  and  honorable.  Now  if  you  don't  want  that,  if  you 
want  this  he-man  sort  of  wooing,  by  God  you'll  get  it !  " 

He  kicked  his  chair  back  angrily  and  advanced  about 
the  table.  A  big  blue  vein  which  ran  down  over  his  fore- 
head stood  out  in  knots.     Jane  rose. 


THE  DESTROYER  91 

"  Dick ! ''  she  cried  and  in  the  one  word  was  disappoint- 
ment, anger,  appeal,  reproach,  query. 

*'  Oh,  I'm  through,"  he  muttered.  **  I  used  to  think  you 
were  a  different  sort;  used  to  think  you  were  fine  and  fin- 
ished. But  if  you're  a  woman  in  the  raw  .  .  .  then  I'll 
treat  you  as  such.  You've  got  me,  either  way;  I  can't  get 
you  out  of  my  mind  an  hour. 

'*  I'm  through  holding  myself  back,  now.  You've  driven 
me  mad  and  you  prove  by  your  own  insinuations  that  the 
lover  you  want  is  not  the  one  who  will  dally  with  you.  You 
want  the  primitive,  go-and-get-it  kind,  the  kind  that  takes 
and  keeps.     Weil,  mine  can  be  that  kind !  " 

She  backed  from  him  slowly  and  he  kept  on  advancing 
with  a  menacing  assurance,  his  face  contorted  with  jealousy 
and  desire. 

"  The  other  day," —  stopping  a  moment,  "  when  I  took 
your  hands  and  felt  your  body  here  in  this  room  I  was  almost 
beside  myself.  You  haven't  been  out  of  my  thoughts  an 
hour  since  then !  I  tried  to  kill  it  with  reason  and  then 
with  drink.  I've  tried  to  be  patient  and  wait  among  the 
.  .  .  the  cattle  in  that  little  town."  He  walked  on  toward 
her. 

"  Dick,  are  you  mad  ?  "  she  challenged,  trying  to  summon 
her  assurance  through  the  fright  which  he  had  given  her. 
"  It's  not  what  you  think.  ,  .  .  It's  none  of  your  affair  — 

•'Dick!" 

He  grasped  her  wrists  roughly. 

'*  Am  I  mad  ? "  he  repeated,  looking  down  at  her,  his 
jaw  clenched.  **  Yes,  I'm  mad.  Mad  from  want  of  you 
.  .  .  your  eyes,  your  lips,  your  hair,  your  very  breath 
drives  me  mad  and  when  I  hear  you  tell  me  that  you've 
found  the  flesh  that  calls  to  your  flesh  among  these  men  it 
drives  me  wild !  I  can  offer  you  more  than  any  of  them 
can  a  thousand  times  over.  .  .  . 

"  Great  God,  I  love  you !  " 

But  his  snarl  was  notfthe  snarl  of  devotion,  of  affection. 
It  was  the  lust  cry  of  the  destroyer,  he  who  would  possess 


92  THE  LAST  STRAW 

hungrily,  unthinkingly,  without  sympathy  or  understand- 
ing .  .  .  even  without   respect. 

He  drew  her  to  him  roughly  and  she  struggled,  too  fright- 
ened to  cry  out,  face  white  and  lips  closed.  He  imprisoned 
both  her  hands  in  his  one  and  with  the  other  arm  about  her 
body  crushed  it  against  his,  her  breast  to  his  breast,  her 
limbs  to  his  limbs.  He  lowered  his  lips  toward  her  face 
and  she  bent  backward,  crying  out  lowly,  but  the  touch  of 
her  lithe  torso,  tense  in  the  struggle  to  be  free,  made  his 
strength  greater,  swept  away  the  last  barrier  of  caution 
and  his  body  was  aflame  with  desire. 

"  Dick  .  .  .  stop.  .  .  ."  she  panted  and  managed  to  free 
one  hand. 

She  struck  him  on  the  mouth  and  struck  again,  blindly. 
He  gave  her  efforts  no  notice  but,  releasing  her  hands, 
crushed  her  to  him  with  both  arms  and  she  could  feel  the 
quick  come  and  go  of  his  breath  through  her  hair  as  he 
buried  his  face  in  it. 

And  at  that  she  became  possessed  of  fresh  strength.  She 
turned  and  half  slipped,  half  fought  her  way  through  his 
clutch,  running  down  the  room  to  the  fireplace  where  she 
stood  with  the  davenport  between  them  breathing  irregularly, 
a  hand  clenched  at  her  breast. 

"  You  .  .  .  you  beast !  "  she  said,  slowly,  unsteadily  as 
he  came  toward  her  again. 

"  Yes,  beast !  "  he  echoed.  "  We're  all  beasts,  every  one 
of  us  who  sees  and  feels  and  I've  seen  you  and  I've  felt 
you  and  the  beast  is  hungry !  " 

*'  And  you  call  that  love !  "  She  spoke  rapidly,  breath- 
lessly. ''  An  hour  ago  if  anyone  would  have  said  that  Dick 
Hilton,  sober,  would  have  displayed  this,  this  thing  which  is 
his  true  self,  I'd  have  come  to  your  defense !  But  now 
.  .  .  you  .  .  .  you ! " 

Her  face  was  flaming,  her  voice  shook  with  outraged 
pride. 

"  Stop !  "  she  cried,  drawing  herself  up,  no  longer  afraid. 
She  emerged  from  fear  commanding,  impressive,  and  Hil- 


THE  DESTROYER  f3 

ton  hesitated,  putting  one  hand  to  a  chair  back  and  eyeing 
her  calculatingly  as  though  scheming.  The  vein  on  his  fore- 
head still  stood  out  like  an  uneven  seam. 

'*  For  shame !  "  she  cried  again.  "  Shame  on  you,  Dick 
Hilton,  and  shame  on  me  for  having  tolerated,  for  having 
believed  in  you  .  .  .  little  as  I  did !  Oh,  I  loathe  it  all,  you 
and  myself  —  that  was  —  because  if  it  had  not  been  for  that 
other  self  which  tolerated  you,  which  gave  you  the  opening, 
this  .  .  .  this  insult  would  never  have  been.  You,  who 
failing  to  buy  a  woman's  love,  would  take  it  by  strength ! 
You  would  do  this,  and  talk  of  your  desire  as  love.  You, 
who  scoff  at  men  whose  respect  for  women  is  as  real  as  the 
lives  they  lead.     You  .  .  .  you  beast !  " 

She  hissed  the  word. 

"  Yes,  beast !  "  he  repeated  again.  "  Like  all  these  other 
beasts,  these  others  who  are  blinding  you  as  you  say  I  have 
blinded  you,  who  have  — " 

"  Stop  it !  "  she  demanded  again.  "  There  is  nothing 
more  to  be  said  .  .  .  ever.  We  understand  one  another  now 
and  there  is  but  one  thing  left  for  you  to  do." 

"And  that?" 

"  Go." 

He  laughed  bitterly  and  ran  a  hand  over  his  sleek  hair. 

**  If  I  go,  you  go  with  me,"  he  said  evenly. 

'*  Leave  this  house,"  the  girl  commanded,  but  instead  of 
obeying  he  moved  toward  her  again  menacingly,  a  disgusting 
smile  on  his  lips. 

He  passed  the  end  of  the  davenport  and  she,  in  turn,  re- 
treated to  the  far  side. 

"  When  I  go,  two  of  — " 

'*  I  take  it  that  you  heard  what  was  said  to  you,  sir." 

At  the  sound  of  the  intruding  voice  Hilton  wheeled 
sharply.  He  faced  Tom  Beck,  who  stood  in  the  doorway, 
framed  against  the  black  night,  arms  limp  and  rather  awk- 
wardly hanging  at  his  sides,  eyes  dangerously  luminous ; 
still,  playing  across  'them  was  that  half  amused  look,  as 
though  this  were  not  in  reality  so  serious  a  matter. 


94  THE  LAST  STRAW 

For  an  interval  there  was  no  sound  except  Hilton's  breath- 
ing: a  sort  of  hoarse  gasp.  The  two  men  eyed  each  other 
and  Jane,  supporting  her  suddenly  weakened  limbs  by  a  hand 
on  the  table,  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  Dick  asked  heavily. 

"  Just  standin'  quiet,  waiting  to  open  the  gate  for  you  when 
you  ride  out." 

The  Easterner  braced  his  shoulders  backward  and  sniffed. 

"And  if  I  don't  choose  to  ride  out?  What  will  you  do 
then?" 

Beck  looked  at  Jane  slowly  and  his  eyes  danced. 

"  It  ain't  necessary  to  talk  about  things  that  won't  hap- 
pen.    You're  going  to  go." 

*'  Who  the  hell  are  you  to  be  so  certain  ?  " 

"  My  name's  Beck,  sir.     I'm  just  workin'  here." 

"  And  playing  the  role  of  a  protector?  " 

"  V/ell,  nothing  much  ever  comes  up  that  I  don't  tr^}  to 
do." 

Hilton  made  as  if  to  speak  again  but  checked  himself, 
walked  down  the  room  in  long  strides,  seized  his  coat,  thrust 
his  arms  into  the  sleeves  viciously  and  stood  buttoning  the 
garment.  Beck  looked  away  into  the  night  as  though  noth- 
ing v/ithin  interested  him  and  Jane  stood  clutching  the  locket 
at  her  throat,  caressing  it  with  her  slim,  nervous  fingers. 

"  Under  the  circumstances,  making  my  farewells  must 
be  to  the  point,"  Hilton  said.  He  spoke  sharply,  belliger- 
ently.    "  I  have  just  this  to  say :     I  am  not  through." 

''  Oh,  go !  "  moaned  Jane,  dropping  into  a  chair  and  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  hands. 

She  heard  the  men  leave  the  veranda,  heard  a  gruff,  low 
word  from  Hilton  and  knew  that  he  went  on  alone.  After 
the  outer  gate  had  closed  she  heard  Tom  walk  slowly  up  the 
path  toward  the  bunk  house.  He  had  left  her  without  com- 
ment, without  any  attempt  at  an  expression  of  concern  or 
sympathy.  She  knew  it  was  no  oversight,  but  only  a  deli- 
cacy which  would  not  have  been  shown  by  many  men. 

Her  loathing  was  gone,  her  anger  dead ;  the  near  past  was 


THE  DESTROYER  95 

a  numb  memory  and  she  looked  up  and  about  the  room  as 
though  it  were  a  strange  place.  There,  within  those  walls, 
she  had  experienced  the  rebirth,  she  had  felt  ambition  to 
stand  alone  come  into  full  being,  she  had  shaken  off  the  fet- 
ters with  which  the  past  had  sought  to  hamper  her.  .  .  . 

And  now  she  was  free,  wholly  free.  The  tentacle  that 
had  been  reached  out  to  draw  her  back  had  been  cast  away. 
Tonight's  renunciation  had  burned  the  last  bridge  to  that 
which  had  been;  Dick  Hilton,  she  believed,  would  never 
again  be  an  active  influence  in  her  life. 

She  could  not  —  perhaps  fortunately  —  foretell  how  mis- 
taken this  belief  actually  would  prove  to  be.  She  did  not 
know  the  intensity  of  a  man's  jealousy,  particularly  when 
P'ate  has  tricked  him  of  his  most  valued  prize.  Nor  could 
she  foresee  those  events  which  would  impell  her  to  send  for 
Hilton,  to  call  him  back,  and  the  wells  of  misery  which  that 
action  would  tap ! 

To-night  he  was  gone,  and  she  was  even  strong  enough  to 
rise  above  loathing  and  pity  him  for  the  failure  he  was. 
Just  one  fact  of  him  remained.  Again  she  heard  his  omi- 
nous prediction,  pronounced  on  his  first  visit  there :  You 
cannot  stand  alone !  You  will  fail !  You  will  come  back 
to  me ! 

She  knew,  now,  that  she  would  never  return  to  him,  but 
there  were  other  possibilities  as  disastrous.  Could  she  meet 
this  new  life  and  beat  it  and  make  in  it  a  place  for  herself? 
Was  her  faith  in  herself  strong  enough  to  outride  the  de- 
feat which  very  possibly  confronted  her? 

She  did  not  know.  .  .  . 

Outside  the  rain  drummed  and  the  cottonwoods,  now  in 
full  leaf,  sighed  as  the  wind  bowed  their  water  weighted 
branches.  She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  search- 
ing the  darkness  for  movement.  There  was  none  but  he  was 
not  far  away  she  knew.  .  .  . 

Her  fingers  again  sought  the  locket  and  she  lifted  it 
quickly,  holding  it  pressed  tightly  against  her  mouth. 

**  It's  all  there,  locked  up  in  a  little  gold  disc !  " 


CHAPTER  X 

A    MATTER   OF   DIRECTION 

IF  Dick  Hilton  had  not  been  bewildered  by  passion,  jeal- 
ousy and  rage  at  thwarted  desires,  he  might  have  known 
that  his  horse  was  not  taking  the  homeward  way,  and  had 
the  horse  not  been  bred  and  raised  by  one  of  Colonel 
Hunter's  mares  he  might  have  carried  his  rider  straight 
back  to  Ute  Crossing. 

But  he  was  a  canny  little  beast,  he  was  cold  and  drenched, 
the  trip  to  town  was  long  and  the  range  on  which  he  had 
spent  his  happy  colthood  was  not  far  off.  Horses  know 
riders  before  riders  know  horses  so,  as  he  went  through  the 
gate,  he  slyly  tried  out  this  rider  and  instead  of  swinging 
to  the  right  he  bore  to  the  left.  He  went  tentatively  through 
the  pitch  darkness,  one  ear  cocked  backward  at  first  but 
when  Hilton,  collar  up,  hat  down,  bowed  before  the  storm, 
gave  no  evidence  of  detecting  this  plan,  the  beast  picked  up 
his  rapid  walk  and  took  the  trail  for  the  nearer,  more  satis- 
factory place  where  many  times  in  the  past  he  had  stood  out 
such  downpours  with  no  great  discomfort  under  the  shelter 
of  a  spreading  cedar. 

And  direction  was  the  last  thing  in  Dick  Hilton's  mind. 
For  a  long  interval  his  thoughts  were  incoherent  and  the 
conflicting  emotions  they  provoked  were  distressing.  Being 
alone,  made  physically  uncomfortable  by  the  water  seeping 
through  his  shoulders  and  breeches,  sensing  the  steady 
movement  of  the  animal  under  him,  brought  some  order  to 
his  mental  chaos  and  finally  realization  began  to  dawn. 

Yes,  he  had  followed  his  strongest  impulses ;  there  could 
be  no  question  about  what  he  had  done,  but  as  for  its  wis- 
dom:    Ah,  that  was  another  matter,  and  he  cursed  himself 

96 


A  MATTER  OF  DIRECTION  97 

for  a  fool,  at  first  mentally,  then  under  his  breath  and  when 
the  horse  began  mounting  a  steep  incline,  clattering  over 
rocks  with  his  unshod  hoofs,  Hilton  halted  him  and  looked 
about  in  foolish  attempt  to  make  out  his  whereabouts  and 
said  aloud: 

"  Off  the  road.  That's  twice  you've  made  an  ass  of  your- 
self tonight !  " 

There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  go  on  and  trust  to 
the  horse.  He  knew  that  this  was  not  the  highway  but  con- 
soled himself  that  it  might  be  a  short  cut  to  the  Crossing. 
Small  consolation  and  it  was  dissipated  when  they  com- 
menced a  lurching  descent  with  a  wall  of  rock  uncomfort- 
ably close  to  his  right,  so  close  that  at  times  his  knee 
scrubbed  it  smartly.  He  became  alarmed  for  the  horse  went 
cautiously,  head  low,  feeling  his  way  over  insecure  footing. 
Once  his  fore  feet  slipped  and  he  stopped  short  while  loos- 
ened stones  rolled  before  them  on  the  trail  and  Hilton  heard 
one  strike  far  below  to  his  left,  and  strike  again  and  again, 
sounds  growing  fainter.  He  peered  down  into  the  gloom 
but  could  see  nothing,  hear  nothing  but  the  hiss  of  rain.  An 
empty  ache  came  into  his  viscera  as  he  imagined  the  depths 
that  might  wait  to  that  side. 

After  a  moment  the  horse  went  on,  picking  his  way  gin- 
gerly. 

Somewhere  beyond  or  below  he  made  out  a  light.  It  was 
a  feeble  glow  and  its  location  becam.e  a  weird  thing  for  lack 
of  perceptive,  but  it  cheered  him.  He  was  decidedly  un- 
comfortable and  his  state  of  mind  added  to  the  physical  need 
of  warmth  and  shelter  so  he  urged  the  horse  on. 

Finally  they  reached  a  flat  and  he  felt  wet  brush  slapping 
at  his  legs  as  the  horse,  intent  on  the  light  himself,  trotted 
forward. 

Their  destination  was  a  cabin.  The  glow  finally  resolved 
itself  into  cracks  of  light  showing  between  logs  and  through 
a  tarpaulin  which  hung  across  the  doorway. 

Dick  shouted.  Movement  inside ;  the  curtain  was  drawn 
back  and  he  rode  blinking  into  the  light,  which  he  could  see 


98  THE  LAST  STRAW 

came  from  a  fireplace.  A  woman  stood  outlined  against  the 
flare. 

*'  Who's  there  ?  "  she  asked  sharply,  and  Dick  stopped  his 
horse. 

"My  name  is  Hilton,"  he  said,  ''but  that  won't  do  you 
much  good.     I'm  a  stranger  and  I'm  off  my  way,  I  guess." 

The  other  did  not  reply  as  he  dismounted  and  walked 
toward  her. 

*'  Without  a  slicker,"  she  said.     "  Come  in." 

The  first  thing  he  saw  inside  was  movement :  A  cartridge 
belt,  swinging  from  a  nail.  A  rifle  leaned  handily  against 
the  door  casing. 

The  girl  who  had  held  the  curtain  back  for  him  to  enter 
let  it  drop  and  turned  to  face  him.  Hilton  drew  his  breath 
sharply.  Blue-black  hair,  in  a  heavy,  orderly  mass  atop  a 
shapely,  high-held  head  and  falling  down  her  straight  trim 
back  in  one  thick  plait ;  brown  eyes,  ripe  red  lips,  a  delicate 
chin  and  a  throat  of  exquisite  proportions.  His  gaze  trav- 
eled down  her  figure,  the  natural  grace  of  which  could  not 
be  concealed  by  the  shirt  and  riding  skirt  she  wore.  She 
was  wholly  beautiful. 

"  Oh,  I've  seen  you  before,"  he  said  slowly.  "  You're 
the  girl  that  demanded  respect  and  got  it  in  the  Crossing 
the  other  day  !  " 

She  eyed  him  in  silence  a  moment,  evidently  unaware  of 
the  admiration  in  his  tone. 

''  I  never  saw  you.  I  ain't  been  here  long,"  she  said,  her 
expression  still  defiant,  as  though  he  had  challenged  her. 
She  searched  his  face,  his  clothing,  and  back  at  his  face 
again.     "  Where  was  you  travelin'  tonight  ?  " 

"  I  was  going  to  the  Crossing,"  he  said  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  My  horse  brought  me  here." 

Without  comment  she  walked  to  the  fire  and  threw  on  an- 
other knot.  He  watched  her  movements,  the  free  rhythmic 
swing  of  her  walk,  the  easy  grace  with  which  her  hands  and 
arms  moved,  the  perfect  assurance  in  even  her  smallest  ges- 
ture.    His  eyes  kindled. 


A  MATTER  OF  DIRECTION  99 

"  Set,"  she  said,  indicating  a  box  by  the  hearth.  "  You're 
soaked.  Lucky  you  struck  here  or  you'd  made  a  night 
of  it." 

Hilton  seated  himself,  holding  his  hands  toward  the 
fire.  He  looked  about  the  one  room  of  the  cabin.  In  two 
corners  were  beds  on  the  earthen  floor,  a  table  made  from  a 
packing  box  contained  dishes,  Dutch  ovens  and  a  frying  pan 
were  on  the  hearth.     The  roof  leaked. 

The  girl  sat  eyeing  the  fire,  rather  sullenly.  He  held 
his  gaze  on  her,  watching  the  play  of  light  over  her  throat 
as  it  threw  a  velvety  sheen  on  the  wind  kissed  skin.  Her 
shirt  was  open  at  the  neck  and  he  could  see  the  easy  rise  and 
fall  of  her  breast  as  she  breathed.  He  noticed  that  her  fin- 
gers were  slender  and  that  her  wrists,  bronzed  by  exposure, 
indicated  with  all  their  delicacy,  wiry  strength.  Another 
thing:     She  was  clean. 

Suddenly  the  girl  looked  up. 

"Think  you'd  know  me  again?"  she  said  bruskly,  and 
rather  swaggered  as  she  moved. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  forget  you,"  he  replied.  "  I 
knew  I  should  not  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  way  you  gave  that  fellow  what  he  deserved.  It 
was  great !  " 

His  manner  was  kindly,  showing  no  resentment  at  her 
belligerence  and  though  her  only  reply  was  a  sniff  he  knew 
that  what  he  had  said  pleased  her. 

"  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  think  I'm  staring  at  you,"  he 
went  on.  '*  A  man  shouldn't  be  blamed  for  looking  at  you 
closely." 

"  How's  that  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  beautiful." 

She  poked  at  the  fire  with  a  stick. 

"I  reckon  that'll  be  enough  of  that,"  she  said  as  she 
walked  back  toward  the  door. 

The  man  smiled  and  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  which 
squinted  speculatively. 


loo  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  You'd  better  unsaddle  that  horse,"  she  said.  "  He'll 
roll  with  your  kak  if  you  don't." 

Hilton  looked  about  the  room  again. 

''  Are  you  alone  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  whirled  and  looked  at  him  with  temper.  Her  hand, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  was  pressed  against  the  wall  near 
that  rifle. 

*'  What  if  I  am?  "—  sharply. 

*'  Because  if  you  are  I  shall  not  unsaddle  my  horse.  I'll 
have  to  go  on." 

When  she  put  her  question  she  had  been  rigidly  expectant 
but  at  his  answer  she  relaxed  and  the  fierceness  that  had 
been  about  her  yielded  to  a  curiosity. 

''  Go  on  in  the  rain  ?  How's  that  ?  " —  in  a  voice  that  was 
quite  different,  as  though  she  had  encountered  something 
she  did  not  understand. 

He  looked  at  her  a  lengthy  interval  before  replying. 

"  Because  I  respect  you  very  much.  Do  you  understand 
that?" 

She  moved  back  to  the  fireplace,  eyeing  him  questioningly, 
and  he  met  that  look  with  an  easy  smile. 

*'  No,  I  don't  understand  that,"  she  said. 

"  You  should.  I  saw  you  beat  a  man  the  other  day  be- 
cause he  didn't  respect  you.  No  one  but  that  type  of  man 
would  refuse  to  respect  you.  It's  wise,  perhaps,  for  you 
to  take  down  that  rifle  when  strangers  come  at  night  .  .  . 
but  it  isn't  always  necessary.  Some  men  might  stay  here 
with  you  alone,  but  I  couldn't." 

You  mean,  that  you'd  ride  on  in  the  rain  ?  " 

Surely." 

Well.  .  .  .  You  ain't  afraid  of  the  gun,  are  you?" 

He  laughed  outright. 

**  No,  it's  not  that !  It's  because  I'd  ride  any  distance 
rather  than  do  something  that  might  bring  you  unhappiness. 
Don't  you  see  ? "  He  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  knees, 
looking  up  into  her  serious  face.     "  Don't  you  see  that  if  I 


a 


A  MATTER  OF  DIRECTION  loi 

stayed  here  with  you,  alone,  and  people  heard  about  it,  they 
might  not  respect  you?" 

'*  It's  none  of  their  business !  " 

"  Neither  was  it  any  business  of  that  man  to  insult  you 
in  town  the  other  day.     But  he  did." 

'*  But  it's  rainin'  and  you're  cold.     I  ain't  afraid  of  you." 

It  was  raining,  but  he  was  not  cold.  The  fire  was  close 
and,  besides,  another  warmth  was  seeping  through  his  body 
as  he  looked  earnestly  into  the  face  of  that  daughter  of  the 
mountains.  The  ready  defiance  was  gone  from  it  and  the 
features,  in  repose,  gave  it  an  expression  that  was  little  less 
than  wistful. 

"  And  you  are  a  young  girl  who  deserves  the  admiration 
of  every  man  that  walks.  If  I  stayed  here  with  you,  you 
would  know  it's  all  right,  and  so  w^ould  I.  .  .  .  Others 
might  not  understand." 

She  sat  down  abruptly,  leaned  back,  clasped  one  knee 
with  her  hands  and  smiled  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful smile,  in  great  contrast  to  her  earlier  sullen  defiance. 

"  I  Hke  you,"  she  said  simply,  and  Hilton's  face  grew  hot. 

*'  If  you  like  me,  my  night's  ride  hasn't  gone  to  waste," 
he  replied,  and  laughed. 

She  looked  him  over  again,  calculatingly,  as  closely  as  she 
had  at  first,  but  with  a  different  interest.  Her  smile  faded 
but  the  lips  remained  slightly  parted,  showing  teeth  of  cal- 
cium whiteness. 

"  You're  the  first  man  that's  ever  talked  that-a  way  to  me. 
I've  been  travelin'  ever  since  I  can  remember,  first  one  place, 
then  another.  I've  always  had  to  look  out  for  men.  .  .  . 
I've  been  able  to,  too,  since  I  got  big  enough  to  be  bothered. 

"  This  is  the  first  time  any  man's  talked  like  you're  talkin' 
to  me." 

"  Bless  you,"  he  said  very  gently,  "  that's  been  tough  luck. 
A  girl  like  you  are  doesn't  deserve  that." 

"  Don't  she  ?  Well,  it  ain't  what  you  deserve  that  counts, 
it's  what  you  get." 


102  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Bobby.  .  .  .  Bobby  Cole." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know  .  .  .  just.  About  twenty.  Alf  knows; 
I  ain't  thought  to  ask  him  for  quite  a  while." 

"  Who's  Alf  ?  " 

''  My  father." 

".  .  .  And  your  mother?" 

"  I  never  had  none  that  I  recall.  She  died  early ;  that  was 
back  in  Oklahoma,  Alf  says." 

"  No  brothers  or  sisters  ?  " 

A  shake  of  the  head. 

"  And  since  then  you've  been  alone  with  your  father?  " 

She  nodded.  ''  For  weeks  an'  months,  without  talkin'  to 
another  soul." 

*'  Have  you  always  lived  so  far  away  as  that  ?  Always  in 
such  remote  places  that  you  didn't  even  see  people  ?  " 

"  Huh !  Usually  I've  seen  'em,  'most  every  day.  .  .  . 
But  there's  a  difference  between  seein'  folks  and  talkin'  to 


em. 


<( 


n 


He  was  puzzled  and  said  so. 
Funny !  "  she  repeated  after  him.     "  Maybe  it's  funny 
but  I  can't  see  it  that-a  way." 
But    surely    you've    made    friends!     A    girl    like    you 
couldn't  help  make  friends." 

"  I've  never  had  a  friend  in  my  life  .  .  .  but  Alf,"  she 
answered  bitterly. 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  because  you  didn't  want  to  make 
friends  with  people." 

"  Didn't  want  to !  "  she  echoed  almost  angrily.  "  What 
else  does  anybody  want  but  friends  ...  an'  things  like 
that?  Oh,  I  wanted  to  all  right,  but  folks  don't  make 
friends  with  .  .  .  with  trash  like  we  are.  We  ain't  got 
enough  to  have  friends;  ain't  got  enough  even  to  have 
peace." 


A  MATTER  OF  DIRECTION  103 

Hilton  studied  her  face  carefully.  It  was  a  queer  blend- 
ing of  appealing  want  and  virulence. 

"  They  won't  even  let  you  have  peace  ?  "  he  asked  delib- 
erately to  urge  her  in  further  revelation. 

"  Folks  that  have  things  don't  want  other  folks  to  have 
'em.  In  this  country  when  poor  folks  try  to  get  ahead  all 
they  get  is  trouble." 

"  Is  that  always  so  ?  " 

She  shrugged  and  said,  *'  It's  always  been  so  with  us.  Big 
cattle  outfits  have  drove  us  out  time  after  time.  They're 
always  say  in'  Alf  steals;  they're  always  makin'  us  trouble. 
I  hate  'em ! 

"  I  could  get  along  all  right.  I  can  fight  but  Alf  can't. 
He's  had  so  much  bad  luck  that  it's  took  th'  heart  out  of 
him.  ...  If  it  wasn't  for  me  he  couldn't  get  along  at  all. 
He's  discouraged." 

"  You  must  think  a  lot  of  your  father." 

She  shook  her  head  as  if  to  infer  that  measuring  such 
devotion  was  an  impossibility. 

"Think  a  lot  of  him?  God,  yes !  He's  all  I  got.  He's 
all  I  ever  had.  He's  the  only  one  that  hasn't  chased'  me 
out  ...  or  chased  after  me.  We've  been  on  the  move  ever 
since  I  can  recollect,  stayin'  a  few  months  or  a  year  or  two, 
then  hittin'  the  trail  again.  Move,  move,  move !  Always 
chased  out  by  big  outfits,  always  made  fun  of,  an'  he's  been 
good  to  me  through  it  all.     I'd  crawl  through  fire  for  Alf." 

"  A  devotion  like  that  is  a  very  fine  and  noble  thing." 

"  Is  it?  It  conies  sort  of  natural  to  me.  I  never  thought 
about  it," —  with  a  weary  sigh. 

**  How  did  you  happen  to  come  here?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  and  a  flicker  as  of  suspicion  crossed 
her  face. 

"  Just  come,"  she  replied,  rather  evasively,  he  thought. 

For  a  time  they  did  not  speak.  The  fire  crackled  dully. 
Steam  rose  in  wisps  from  Hilton's  soaked  clothing  and  a 
cunning  crept  into  his  expression.     The  rain  pattered  on  the 


104  THE  LAST  STRAW 

roof  and  dripped  through  in  several  places,  forming  dark 
spots  on  the  hard  floor;  the  horse  stamped  in  the  mud  out- 
side. 

The  man  saw  the  regular  leap  of  the  pulse  in  her  throat 
and  caressed  his  thumb  with  finger  tips  as  delicately  as 
though  they  stroked  that  smooth  skin. 

Her  lips  were  parted  .  .  .  and  such  lips !  He  told  him- 
self that  she  was  more  beautiful  than  he  had  first  thought 
and  as  filled  with  contrasts  as  the  heavens  themselves. 
Shortly  before  she  had  been  defiant,  ready  for  trouble,  pre- 
pared to  defend  herself  with  a  rifle  if  necessary;  now  she 
was  a  child ;  that,  and  no  more  .  .  .  and  she  was  distinctive 
.  .  .  quite  so. 

"  You  better  stay/'  she  said  rather  shyly  after  a  time. 
**  Alf'll  be  back  some  time  before  'mornin'.  Nobody'll 
know." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  You  and  I  would  know,  and  after  I've  told  you  what  I 
think  about  it,  maybe  you  wouldn't  like  me  if  I  did  stay  .  .  . 
you've  said  you  did  like  me." 

He  rose,  smiling. 

"  Sure  enough  goin'  ?  " 

"  Sure  enough  going." 

"  But  you're  soaked  and  cold." 

"  No  man  could  do  less  for  a  girl  like  you." 

He  bowed  playfully  low  and  when  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her 
again  they  read  her  simple  pleasure.  He  had  touched  her 
greatest  love,  the  desire  to  be  treated  by  men  with  respect. 

"  I'll  just  ask  you  to  show  me  the  way." 

"  You  come  by  the  way,  I  guess.  Just  start  back  that 
trail  and  your  cayuse'll  take  you  to  the  road  — 

"  But  Alf'll  be  back.  We've  never  turned  anybody  out 
in  the  rain  before." 

"  Then  this  is  something  new.  Don't  ask  me  again,  please. 
When  you  ask  a  man  it  makes  it  very  hard  to  refuse  and  I 
must  .  .  .  for  your  sake. 

"  After  I  strike  the  road,  then  what?  " 


A  MATTER  OF  DIRECTION  105 

"  Follow  right  past  the  H  C  ranch  to  town.  You  know 
where  that  is  ?  " 

A  wave  of  rage  swept  through  him. 

*'  I  ought  to !  "  he  said  bitterly.  "  I  was  sent  away  from 
there  tonight." 

**  Sent  away?     In  the  rainf  " 

*'  In  the  rain." 

"  Why  did  they  do  that  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*'  Because  there  are  things  which  some  people  do  not  value 
as  highly  as  you  do.  Generosity,  thoughtfulness  for  the  de- 
sires of  others,  hospitality." 

He  licked  his  lips  almost  greedily  as  he  watched  her. 

"  Did  she  know  ?  " 
Who  do  you  mean?  " 
That  greenhorn  gal." 

Yes,  she  knew,"  he  answered  grimly,  and  buttoned  his 
coat. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  she  took  it,  rather  awed. 

"  Some  time  I  may  come  back  and  thank  you  for  what 
you've  wanted  to  do." 

'*  Oh,  you'll  come  back  ?  " 
Do  you  want  me  to  ?  " 
Yes," —  eagerly. 

*'  Then  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  stay  away  for  long !  " 

She  stood  watching,  as,  touching  his  hat,  he  rode  into  the 
night.  She  let  the  curtain  drop  and  returned  to  the  fire, 
standing  there  a  moment.  Then  she  sat  down,  rather 
weakly,  and  stretched  her  slim  legs  across  the  hearth. 

"  I'll  be  damned  1  "  she  said,  rather  reverently. 

Hilton  did  not  ride  far.  His  horse  was  reluctant  to  go 
at  first  and  then  stopped  and  stood  with  head  in  the  air, 
nickering  sokly  and  would  not  go  on  when  his  rider  spurred 
him.  After  a  moment  Hilton  sat  still  and  listened.  He 
heard  the  steady  plunk-plunk-pliink  of  a  trotting  horse  and, 
soon,  the  swish  of  brush;  then  a  call,  rather  low  and  cau- 
tious. 


<< 


io6  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  canvas  before  the  doorway  was  drawn  back. 

"You  decided  to  stay?"  Then,  in  surprise,  "Who's 
there  ?  " —  sharply. 

One  word  in  answer  and  Hilton  remembered  it: 

"  Hepburn." 

The  rider  dismounted  and  entered. 

Dick  rode  on  up  the  trail.  When  he  reached  Ute  Cross- 
ing his  clothing  was  dried  by  the  early  sun.  He  ate  break- 
fast and  crawled  into  his  bed,  angered  one  moment,  puz- 
zled the  next  and,  finally,  thrilled  as  he  dropped  asleep  with 
a  vision  of  firelight  playing  over  a  deliciously  slender  throat. 


CHAPTER  XI 


Hepburn's  play 


IT  was  the  next  morning.  Beck,  standing  beside  Jane's 
desk,  had  told  her  of  the  foreman's  departure  and  its 
motive. 

"  But  doesn't  that  mean  he'll  be  in  danger  ?  "  she  queried 
in  frank  dismay. 

**  A  man  who  goes  after  horse  thieves  is  likely  to  run  into 
trouble,  ma'am.  That  is,  if  he  gets  close  to  'em.  He 
wouldn't  let  anybody  go  with  him  so  I  guess  he  figures  he's 
competent," —  dryly.  "  He'll  come  back  all  right.  I'd  bet 
on  it." 

*'  But  I  don't  want  any  of  you  men  to  put  yourselves  in 
danger  for  me,  for  the  things  I  own.  I  won't  have  it! 
Haven't  we  any  law  to  protect  us  ?  " 

Beck  shook  his  head. 

"  There's  law,  on  books.  But  using  that  law  takes  time 
and  in  some  cases,  like  this,  there  ain't  time  to  spare. 
You've  got  to  make  a  law  of  your  own  or  those  that  some- 
body else  makes  won't  be  worth  much  to  you. 

'*  It  ain't  just  pleasant  to  have  to  go  gunning  for  your 
horses  and  cattle,  but  if  that's  the  only  way  to  hold  'em  it's 
got  to  be  done.  It's  either  go  get  'em  and  drive  the  thieves 
out  or  be  driven  out  yourself.  You  don't  want  to  be  driven 
out,  do  you,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  You  know  the  answer  to  that,"  she  declared  resolutely. 
"  Where  is  this  place  ?  How  long  will  it  take  him  to  get 
there?" 

"  Can't  tell  that.  Twenty  Mile  is  only  a  short  ride,  but 
we  got  the  news  late.  They're  probably  gone  yonder  by  now 
and  he  might  trail  'em  a  good  many  days  an'  then  lose  'em." 

107 


io8  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Again  that  dryness  of  manner  as  he  looked  at  the  girl. 

"  And  this  other?     This  water  hole?     What  about  that?  '' 

Beck  could  not  give  her  an  answer. 

"  It  all  depends  on  what  sort  of  nester  this  is.  He  might 
be  talked  out  of  it,  though  that  ain't  likely/' 

She  tapped  the  desk  with  nervous  fingers. 

"  I  came  down  to  tell  you  about  Dad  last  night.  That's 
why  I  was  here,"  he  explained,  as  though  he  considered  an 
explanation  necessary.  And  with  it  was  an  indication  of  the 
curiosity  which  he  could  not  conceal. 

Jane  flushed,  and  her  gaze  fell.  The  man  stood  looking 
down  at  her  golden  hair,  the  soft  skin  of  cheeks  and  throat, 
the  parted  lips.  One  of  his  hands  closed  slowly,  tightly. 
For  a  moment  he  let  himself  want  her ! 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  did  come.  I  don't  know  how 
much  you  heard  or  what  you  saw  but — " 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  recall,  except  that  you  wasn't  havin' 
your  own  way." 

The  courtesy  of  this  touched  her  and  she  smiled  her 
gratitude. 

"  Dick  Hilton  had  been  an  old  friend  of  mine ;  that  is,  I 
thought  he  was  a   friend.     I  .  .  . 

"  He  said  some  things  last  night  that  I  wouldn't  want  you 
to  misunderstand.  They.  .  .  .  That  is,  it  would  hurt  me 
to  think  that  you  might  believe  what  you  heard  him  say." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  any  danger  of  me  misunderstanding 
anything  that  man  would  say  about  you.  I  mean,  his  mean- 
ing, ma'am,  not  only  his  words." 

"  That  is  as  much  assurance  as  could  be  given,"  she  re- 
plied. 

For  forty-eight  hours  following  Hepburn's  departure  the 
H  C  was  in  a  state  of  expectation.  Frequently,  even  on  the 
first  night  following,  the  men  would  stop  talking  and  listen 
at  any  unusual  sound  as  though  that  all  believed  it  might 
be  the  foreman  returning  or  some  one  with  the  word  that  he 
would  never  return,  because  the  remainder  of  the  crew  did 


HEPBURN'S  PLAY  109 

not  have  the  faith  in  his  well  being  that  Beck  had  expressed 
to  Jane  Hunter. 

The  Reverend  held  the  floor  much  of  the  time,  preaching 
frequent  impromptu  sermons,  discoursing  largely  on  small 
matters.  To  him  the  rest  listened  in  delight  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Two-Bits,  who  was  overawed  by  the  verboseness  of 
his  kin. 

A  less  obvious  activity  of  the  Reverend's  was  his  pertinent, 
never  ceasing  questioning.  He  asked  questions  casually  and 
covered  his  attempts  to  glean  information  by  long-winded 
comments  on  irrelevent  subjects.  Tom  Beck,  even,  caught 
himself  expressing  opinions  when  he  had  not  intended  to 
and  guarded  himself  thereafter. 

"  He's  an  old  fox  !  "  he  thought.  "  He  knows  a  heap  more 
than  he  lets  on  .  .  .  like  some  other  folks." 

Otherwise  the  man  seemed  harmless.  He  let  no  oppor- 
tunity pass  to  sell  his  fountain  pens  which  he  carried  always 
in  the  pockets  of  his  frock  coat.  He  took  frequent  inven- 
tories of  his  stock  and  when  he  miscounted  or  actually  found 
some  article  missing  he  turned  the  place  upside  down  until 
the  loss  was  adjusted. 

He  seemed  inclined  to  linger  because  though  assuring  the 
rest  that  his  plans  were  not  of  mortal  making  he  often  spoke 
of  the  summer's  work.  He  was  no  mean  ranch  hand  himself 
and  was  with  his  brother  much,  doing  everything  from 
branding  colts  to  digging  post  holes. 

When,  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  Hepburn  had  not 
returned,  Jane  called  Beck  to  the  house  and  asked  if  he  did 
not  think  it  wise  to  send  help.  The  man  did  not  reply  at 
once  because  at  this  suggestion  a  possibility  flashed  into  his 
mind  which  he  had  not  considered  hitherto.  He  looked  at 
the  girl  who  stood  fingering  the  locket  and  asked  himself: 

"  Has  he  taken  this  chance  to  quit  the  country  ?  Has 
something  happened  that  is  bound  to  come  to  light  ?  " 

Aloud,  he  said : 

*'  Your  worry  is  in  the  wrong  place.  You're  worr}'ing 
over  3'our  men  and  you  ought  to  be  worrying  over  your 


no  THE  LAST  STRAW 

stock.  You've  come  into  this  country ;  you  want  to  stay ; 
you  don't  seem  to  understand,  quite,  that  this  is  no  polite 
game  you're  playing. 

"  When  a  man  goes  to  work  for  an  outfit,  if  he's  the  right 
kind  to  be  a  top  hand  out  here,  he's  willing  to  do  anything 
that  comes  up,  even  if  it's  risking  his  life.  That  ain't  right 
pleasant  to  think  about,  ma'am,  but  we  all  understand  it. 
If  it  has  to  be  it  has  to  be ;  no  choice. 

"  If  you're  going  to  worry  more  about  your  men  in  a  case 
like  this  than  you  do  about  havin'  them  hold  up  your  end  of 
the  game  you  ain't  going  to  play  up  to  your  part.  You  can't 
be  soft  hearted  and  stand  off  horse  thieves." 

"  But,  don't  you  see  that  I  can't  feel  that  way  ? "  she 
pleaded. 

"  Then  you've  got  to  act  that  way,  ma'am,"  he  replied  in 
rebuke.  "  Your  men  have  got  to  understand  that  you  care 
whether  school  keeps  or  not  ...  or  school  ain't  going  to 
keep.     Get  that  straight  in  your  head." 

He  looked  down  at  her  a  moment  and  his  face  changed, 
that  little  dancing  light  coming  into  his  eyes  at  first ;  then  he 
smiled  openly. 

"  There's  a  word  we  use  out  here  that  I  guess  that  they 
didn't  use  in  the  country  you  come  from.  It's  Guts. 
They're  necessary,  ma'am." 

He  waited  to  see  how  she  would  take  his  assertion,  but 
she  only  flushed  slightly. 

"If  Hepburn  don't  show  up  soon,  it  might  be  wise  to  go 
prospectin',  but  it  won't  be  best  to  think  more  about  him 
than  you  do  about  the  men  he's  after  .  .  .  least,  it  won't  be 
wise  to  show  you  do.  I  ain't  advisin'  you  to  be  hard  hearted. 
Just  play  the  game ;  that's  all." 

He  left  her,  with  a  deal  to  think  about. 

After  all,  there  had  been  no  occasion  for  concern  because 
at  noon,  dust  covered,  on  a  gaunt  horse,  the  foreman  brought 
eight  H  C  horses  into  the  ranch. 

The  men  hastened  from  the  dinner  table  but  Hepburn  did 


HEPBURN'S  PLAY  in 

not  respond  to  their  queries  and  congratulations.  He  bore 
himself  with  dignity  and  had  an  eye  only  for  the  completion 
of  his  task. 

'*  Open  the  gate  to  the  little  corral,  Two-Bits,"  he  directed 
and,  this  done,  urged  the  horses  within. 

Next  he  dragged  his  saddle  from  the  big  bay  and  rubbed 
the  animal's  back  solicitously,  let  him  roll  and  led  him  to  the 
stable  where  he  measured  out  a  lavish  feed  of  oats. 

Meanwhile  he  had  been  surrounded  by  insistent  question- 
ers but  he  put  them  off  rather  abruptly ;  when  he  emerged 
from  the  stable,  slapping  his  palms  together  to  rid  them  of 
moist  horse  hair  he  stopped,  hitched  up  his  chaps  and  looked 
from  face  to  face  until  his  eyes  met  those  of  Tom  Beck, 
who  had  been  the  last  to  approach.  Their  gazes  clung, 
Hepb''  *n's  in  challenge,  now,  and  in  the  other's  an  expression 
which  defied  definition. 

"  I  brought  'em  in,"  the  foreman  said,  still  staring  at  Beck 
and  bit  savagely  down  on  his  tobacco.  "  Does  that  mean 
anything  "^  " 


^fc> 


Beck  smiled,  as  though  it  did  not  matter  much,  and  said : 

*'  For  the  present  .  .  .  you  win." 

The  others  had  not  caught  the  significance  of  this  ex- 
change and  when  Dad  moved  forward  their  talk  broke  out 
afresh.     The  foreman  grinned,  pleased  at  the  stir. 

'*  Now,  now  !  Don't  swamp  a  waddie  when  he  comes  in 
after  next  to  no  sleep  an'  ridin'  from  hell  to  breakfast !  " 
he  protested.     "  One  at  a  time,  one  at  a  time." 

**  Tie  to  the  story  an'  drag  her  past  us,"  advised  Curtis. 

"  It  ain't  much," —  with  a  modesty  that  was  somewhat 
forced.  "  It  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  case  of  goin'  and  gettin' 
the  goods.  Picked  up  the  trail  at  the  mouth  of  Twenty 
Mile  early  the  mornin'  after  I  set  out  and  dragged  right 
along  on  it.  There  was  three  of  'em,  so  I  laid  pretty  low 
after  noon.  Then  one  cuts  oft  towards  the  rail  road  and 
at  night  the  others  turned  the  horses  into  that  old  corral  at 
the  Ute's  buckskin  camp.     I  waited  until  they  got  to  sleep, 


112  THE  LAST  STRAW 

saw  I  couldn't  sneak  the  stock  away  so," — he  spat  and 
wiped  his  mustache,  "  I  just  naturally  scattered  their  fire 
all  ways !  " 

He  laughed  heartily. 

''  You'd  ought  to  seen  'em  coming  out  of  their  blankets ! 
I  dropped  two  shots  in  the  coals  and  then  blazed  away  at 
the  first  man  up.  Missed  him  but  cut  'em  off  from  their 
ridin'  horses,  got  ours  out  of  the  corral  while  their  saddle 
stock  was  stampedin'  all  over  the  brush  and  lit  out  for  here, 
hittin'  the  breeze ! 

"  That's  about  all.  Stopped  at  Webb's  last  night  and  tried 
to  figure  out  the  men,  but  they're  strangers,  I  guess." 

There  were  comments  and  questions.  Then  Jimmy 
Oliver,  looking  at  Dad's  saddle,  said : 

"  What  happened  to  your  horn,  there?  " 

The  foreman  chuckled. 

"  One  of  'em  almost  got  me,  boys,  but  a  miss  is  as  good 
as  four  or  five  days'  ride,  ain't  it?  Was  circlin'  for  the 
horses,  shootin'  sideways  at  'em  when  one  of  'em  put  some 
lead  in  betwixt  me  and  the  horn,  only  quite  close  to  the 
horn,  it  seems." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  darned  if  you  didn't  have  a  close  shave, 
and  — " 

Just  then  Jane  Hunter  rode  up  on  her  sorrel  and  when 
she  saw  her  foreman  she  smiled  in  relief. 

"  You're  back,  and  safely !  "  she  said  as  she  dismounted. 

"  With  the  bacon,  ma'am." 

"  An'  they  almost  got  his  bacon,  Miss  Hunter,"  Oliver 
said.  "  Look  here ! "  He  indicated  the  damaged  saddle 
and  explained. 

"  They  came  that  close  to  shooting  you  ?  "  she  asked  Dad. 
Her  voice  was  even  enough  but  she  could  not  conceal  her 
dismay  at  his  narrow  escape. 

"  Why,  Miss  Hunter,  that  ain't  nothin' !  I  was  just  tellin' 
the  boys  that  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  long  ride.  I'm  your 
foreman,  they  was  your  horses  — " 


HEPBURN'S  PLAY  113 

"  Such  things  have  to  be,"  she  broke  in,  making  an  effort 
to  be  decisive  and  convincing,  but  her  voice  v^^as  not  just 
steady  and  Beck,  at  least,  knew  how  desperately  she  tried  to 
play  up  to  her  part,  to  smother  her  impulse  to  show  that  she 
held  life  dearer  than  she  did  her  property,  to  shrink  from 
the  hard  facts  of  the  hard  life  she  faced. 

"  So  long  as  I'm  your  foreman  nobody's  goin'  to  get  away 
with  your  stock  without  a  fight,"  Hepburn  went  on  pomp- 
ously, well  satisfied  with  the  impression  he  had  made.  "If 
necessary  they'll  come  a  lot  closer  to  lettin'  blessed  sunshine 
in  to  my  carcass  than  this !  There  ain't  a  man  of  us  who 
wouldn't  do  it  for  you  an'  gladly.  If  they're  goin'  to  tr}' 
to  fleece  you  they've  got  us  to  reckon  with  first. 

"  Ain't  that  the  truth,  Tom  ?  " 

Beck  did  not  reply  but  watched  Jane  Hunter  as  she  stood 
looking  down  at  the  saddle  with  its  tell  tale  scar. 

The  Reverend  remained  when  the  group  broke  up.  He 
leaned  low  over  the  saddle  and  examined  the  leather  binding 
about  the  horn.  He  fingered  it,  then  lowered  his  face  close 
against  it.  For  a  moment  he  held  so  and  then  straightened 
slowly.  He  walked  toward  the  bunk  house  so  absorbed  that 
he  talked  to  himself  and  as  he  passed  Beck  he  was  mutter- 
ing: 

**.  .  .  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  .  .  ." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Beck. 

The  Reverend  stopped,  surprised  that  he  had  been  over- 
heard. He  looked  at  Tom  and  blinked  and  rattled  the  pens 
in  his  coat  pocket;  then  looked  about  to  see  whether  they 
were  observed. 

"  Brother,  when  a  man  is  honest  does  he  go  to  great  pains 
to  make  that  honesty  evident  ?  Does  he  lie  to  make  people 
believe  he  does  not  act  a  lie  ?  " 

*'  Not  usually.     What  are  you  drivin'  at.  Reverend?  " 

The  other  stepped  closer. 

"  If  you'll  examine  that  saddle  horn,  you'll  discover  that 
the  shot  which  tore  it  was  fired  from  a  gun  held  so  close 


114  THE  LAST  STRAW 

that  the  powder  burned  the  leather.  More:  that  it  was 
fired  so  recently  that  the  smell  of  powder  is  still  there. 

"  There  is  something  rotten,  brother,  in  a  locality  nearer 
than  Denmark !  " 

Beck  whistled  softly  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XII 


A   NEIGHBORLY   CALL 


THE  mountains  which  had  been  brown  and  saffron 
when  Jane  Hunter  came  to  take  possession  of  her 
ranch  grew  tinted  with  green  as  grasses  sprouted  under  the 
coaxing  sun.  Pinions  were  edged  with  ligliter  tints,  con- 
trasting sharply  with  the  deep  color  of  older  growth.  Serv- 
ice bushes  turned  cream  color  with  bloom  and  sage  put  out 
new  growth ;  calves,  high-tailed  and  venturesome,  frolicked 
between  frequent  meals  from  swollen  udders,  birds  nested 
and  shy  mountain  flowers  completed  their  scant  cycle. 

No  life  remained  arrested  and  with  the  rest  the  girl  de- 
veloped. She  took  on  a  more  robust  color,  her  eyes  which 
had  always  been  clear  and  cool,  possessed  a  different  look 
and  a  thin  sprinkling  of  tiny  freckles  appeared  across  her 
nose.  She  had  taken  to  the  ways  of  the  mountains  easily. 
Her  modish  clothing  was  discarded  and  she  wore  brightly 
colored  shirts,  a  brimmed  hat,  drab  riding  skirt  and  the 
smallest  pair  of  boots  that  had  ever  been  manufactured  in 
that  country. 

Two-Bits  was  wide-eyed  in  his  enthusiasm. 

"  My  gosh,  Reverend !  "  he  whispered,  "  look  at  them 
boots!  Ain't  they  th'  grandest  little  things  you  ever  seen? 
.  .  .  Gosh,  they're  too  little  for  any  spurs  she  can  buy,  ain't 
they?     Gosh  .  .  ." — in  helpless  admiration. 

Two-Bits  and  the  Reverend  had  something  on.  This  was 
evident  from  the  manner  in  which  they  kept  apart  from  the 
others.  Each  evening  they  would  sit  on  a  wagon  seat  or 
perch  on  a  corral  or  Azariah  would  stand  near  while  his 
brother  groomed  his  little  horse,  Nigger,  and  they  would 
talk,  low  and  confidently,  the  Reverend  gesticulating  and 

IIS 


ii6  THE  LAST  STR.\W 

Two-Bits  looking  far  away  and  talking  laboriously  as  though 
he  were  memorizing  something. 

The  homely  fellow  took  several  mysterious  trips  to  town 
and  once  he  borrowed  ten  dollars  from  Beck  and  offered  a 
buckskin  bridle  as  security,  which  the  other  waved  away 
with  affectionate  curses. 

Hepburn  had  been  commissioned  to  talk  with  Cole,  the 
nester,  and  determine  his  plans  as  they  might  affect  the  H  C. 
This  took  him  away  from  the  ranch  repeatedly  ...  so 
many  times,  in  fact,  that  it  gave  Beck  one  more  thing  to 
wonder  about.  Also,  there  was  a  letter  for  Hepburn,  ar- 
riving a  day  or  two  after  his  return  with  the  stolen  horses, 
which  sent  him  suddenly  to  Ute  Crossing;  thereafter  he 
went  frequently. 

There  seemed  no  way  around  the  potential  difficulty  which 
the  nester  presented  and,  as  one  of  her  last  resorts,  Jane 
sent  Tom  to  the  Crossing  to  look  up  the  record  of  the  filing 
himself  and  to  confer  with  the  one  remaining  attorney  in 
the  town.  He  announced  his  going  and  Two-Bits,  hearing, 
asked  him  to  bring  back  a  package  which  would  be  waiting 
there.  When  Tom  returned  that  night  he  handed  the  gawky 
lad  a  small  parcel  which  he  immediately  stuffed  into  his 
shirt  and  carried  to  the  supper  table. 

"  Them  your  jooles?  "  Ohver  asked. 

"  None  of  your  gol-darned  business !  " 

"  Ah,  come  on,  old  timer,  an'  let  us  in  on  It,"  the  other 
pleaded.     "  I'll  bet  it's  a  present  for  your  best  girl." 

"  If  you  got  to  know,  it's  corn  plasters  for  th'  corns  on 
your  brains,  Jimmy,"  Two-Bits  countered. 

He  hurried  through  his  meal  and  from  the  table  and,  with 
the  Reverend,  walked  down  toward  the  creek  where  they 
went  through  their  usual  performance,  this  time,  however, 
with  less  prompting  from  the  clergyman.  Then,  brushing 
the  dust  from  his  shirt,  adjusting  his  scarf,  Two-Bits  walked 
nervously  toward  the  ranch  house. 

Jane  answered  his  knock  with  a  call  to  enter.  He  stepped 
in  with  the  package  in  his  hand,  but  as  he  removed  his  hat 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  117 

the  parcel  dropped  to  the  floor  and  when  he  regained  an  erect 
position  after  recovering  it  his  face  was  fiery  red. 

"  What's  your  trouble  tonight,  Two-Bits  ?  "  Jane  asked, 
approaching  him. 

"  In,"  he  began  and  stopped  to  clear  his  throat.  He  swal- 
lowed with  great  difficulty.  "  In  —  In  recognition  of  your 
—  your  God — "     He  coughed  and  swallowed  once  more. 

"  What?  " —  in  amazement. 

*'  In  recognition  of  your  God  —  your  God  given  beauty, 
an'  estim  —  estimable  qualifications  — " 

He  ran  a  finger  inside  his  collar  and  dropped  his  hat. 
Perspiration  stood  on  his  lip  in  beads  and  his  dismayed  eyes 
roved  the  room.     He  moved  his  feet  nervously. 

"In  recognition  of  your  God — ''  he  began  again,  but 
broke  short: 

*'  Hell,  ma'am,"  he  exploded,  *'  my  brother  taught  me  a 
fine  speech  — 

*'  Here !  " —  holding  the  package  toward  her  with  an  un- 
steady hand  and  a  great  relief  coming  into  his  eyes.  "  I 
found  this  in  th'  road  an'  thought  mebby  you  might  want 
'em." 

Controlling  her  desire  to  laugh  at  his  confusion  Jane  took 
the  package  and  turned  it  over  in  her  hands. 

What  is  it,  Two-Bits  ?  Why  do  you  bring  it  to  me  ?  " 
I  can't  use  it — 'em.  I  thought  ...  I  ..."  he  began, 
backing  rapidly  toward  the  door,  moving  with  accelerated 
speed  as  he  put  distance  between  them. 

"  Two-Bits,  you  wait !  "  she  commanded.  "  I'm  going  to 
find  out  what  this  is  before  you  go." 

He  looked  about  in  a  fresh  agony  of  embarrassment  but 
her  order  had  rendered  him  unable  to  move.  Jane  broke 
the  string,  took  ofif  the  wrapping  and  opened  a  paper  box. 
Within  reposed  a  pair  of  spurs,  as  small  spurs  as  her  boots 
were  small  boots.  They  were  beautiful  products  of  some 
mountain  forge,  one-piece  steel,  heavily  engraved  by  hand, 
silver  plated.     Small  silver  chains  and  hand-tooled  straps 


ii8  THE  LAST  STRAW 

were  attached  and  as  she  held  them  up  the  delicate  rowels 
jingled  like  tiny  bells. 

"  Two-Bits  !  "  she  cried.     "  Aren't  they  beautiful?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  and  made  for  the  door  again. 

She  caught  him  by  the  arm  that  time,  else  he  would  have 
fled,  and  she  made  him  look  at  her. 

"  Two-Bits,  you  lied  to  me !  You  didn't  find  these  on  the 
road,  now,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  .  .  .  Not  exactly,  ma'am," —  weakly. 

"  Where  did  they  come  from  ?  " 

"  A  fella,  he  made  'em  an'  give  'em  to  me  an'  they  was 
too  small  for  me  — " 

"  Don't  you  tell  me  another  single  lie !  Where  did  you 
get  them  ?  " 

"  Well  ...  I  had  'em  made," —  swallowing  again,  and 
very  weakly. 

''  Two-Bits !  " —  seizing  his  rough,  cold  hand  w^hile  a  sug- 
gestion of  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  You  had  these  made 
for  me?  W^hy,  bless  your  heart,  I've  never  had  a  finer  gift 
before.     And  to  think  — 

"  You're  a  dear !  " 

"  Oh,  my  gosh !  "  he  whimpered,  and  despite  her  detain- 
ing hand,  fled  the  disquieting  presence. 

Of  all  men  in  that  country,  Two-Bits  was  the  only  one 
who  openly  accepted  Jane  Hunter  and  his  devotion  was 
caused  by  an  awed  appreciation  of  her  beauty.  The  others, 
ever  her  own  riders,  remained  stolidly  skeptical  of  her  abil- 
ity to  measure  up  to  the  task  she  had  undertaken  and  when 
men  talked  of  the  business  of  the  country  they  unconsciously 
spoke  of  the  prestige  of  the  H  C  as  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Hepburn  had  brought  back  some  of  her  property  that  was 
being  driven  off  but  he  had  not  halted  attempts  to  make  away 
with  her  horses  and  cattle.  There  were  rumors,  vague  but 
persistent,  of  other  depredations  and  those  who  best  knew 
the  ways  of  the  cattle  country  awaited  that  time  when  the 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  119 

situation  must  reach  a  crisis,  when  Jane  Hunter  must  be  put 
to  the  ordeal  that  would  test  her  mettle. 

She  was  yet  unconscious  of  much  of  this  for  her  urge 
to  make  a  place  for  herself  centered  on  penetrating  the 
callousness  of  the  one  man  she  wanted  to  impress  most  of 
all.  He  remained  aloof,  watching  her  either  with  that 
tantalizing  amusement  or  a  subtle  challenge  to  win  his  open 
friendship.  There  were  moments  when,  as  on  that  night 
after  their  drive  to  Ute  Crossing,  she  wanted  to  throw  her- 
self on  him,  to  beg,  to  plead  that  he  lower  his  reserve  and 
give  her  a  place  ...  a  place  in  his  heart. 

But  that,  reason  told  her,  would  be  the  last  thing  to  win 
him.  She  must  trust  to  the  force  of  her  personality  to  drive 
her  way  into  his  life.  .  .  . 

Occasionally  he  would  talk,  for  she  offered  a  sympathetic 
audience  to  the  things  he  had  to  say  but  never  did  their 
conversation  become  intimate ;  the  subjects  he  discussed  were 
invariably  abstract  and  impersonal.  While  listening  she 
studied  the  man,  striving  to  define  that  quality  about  him 
which  lay  behind  his  reserve  and  drew  her  on.  She  could 
not  seize  and  analyze  it.  .  .  .  He  was,  aside  from  obvious 
minor  qualities,  a  closed  book. 

Still  she  saw  him  at  night  patrolling  the  cottonwoods  be- 
fore he  slept! 

She  could  not  know  what  went  on  in  the  heart  of  that 
man,  of  the  fight  he  waged  with  himself,  of  the  struggle  he 
made  to  stick  to  his  creed :  never  to  take  a  chance.  He  did 
not  know  that  she  was  aware  of  those  nightly  vigils.  The 
first  had  been  on  that  night  after  he  had  played  with  her 
pride  and  her  high  spirits.  Returned  to  the  bunk  house 
he  had  suddenly  seen  her  not  a  smart,  capable  stranger  but 
as  a  girl,  alone,  facing  a  new  life,  surrounded  by  strange 
people  and  unfriendly  influences.  He  sensed  a  pity  for  her 
and  walked  back  to  look  about  the  place  and  see  that  all  was 
well,  as  he  might  have  watched  over  a  sleeping  child. 

And  then,  the  day  that  the  sorrel  threw  her,  he  had  felt 


120  THE  LAST  STRAW 

her  body  and  the  man  in  him  had  been  stirred  and  when  next 
he  paced  those  shadows  it  was  not  as  a  protector  of  some 
defenseless  life,  but  as  one  who  quite  tenderly  lays  siege  to 
the  heart  of  a  woman. 

He  did  not  admit  that  even  to  himself.  He  reasoned  that 
he  was  protecting  her  because  she  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land  and  that  the  impulse  was  only  kindness.  But  his  rea- 
son in  that  was  a  conscious  He  for  as  he  stood  under  the 
stars  with  the  cool,  quiet  night  all  about  him  he  could  hear 
her  voice  in  the  murmur  of  the  creek,  hear  her  limbs  rustling 
her  skirts  in  the  soft  sigh  of  wind  in  the  trees,  could  feel  her 
presence  there  .  .  .  when  he  was  stark  alone.  .  .  . 

And  he  fought  it  off,  fought  stubbornly,  coldly  because 
he  did  not  know,  he  did  not  know  love,  did  not  know  the 
ground  into  which  he  was  being  carried. 

Women  ?  He  had  had  many  but  the  experiences  had  been 
casual,  mere  surface  rifflings,  and  he  had  never  been  stirred 
as  this  woman  stirred  him.  It  was  new,  entirely  new,  and 
Tom  Beck  feared  that  which  he  did  not  know. 

He  was  accustomed  to  talk  to  his  horses  as  men  will  who 
love  them  and  while  he  rode  the  gulches  alone  he  would  in 
later  days  reason  aloud  with  his  own  roan  or  the  H  C  black 
or  bay  he  used. 

"  Why,  old  stager,  we  can't  take  a  chance  like  that !  "  he 
said  time  after  time.  ''  We've  kept  our  heels  out  of  trouble 
by  playing  a  close  game,  not  gettin'  out  on  a  limb,  but  up  to 
now  everything  that  come  along  has  been  boy's  play  .  .  . 
compared  to  this. 

"If  an  hombre  took  a  chance  with  his  love  that'd  be  the 
limit,  wouldn't  it?  He'd  have  his  stack  on  the  table,  an'  the 
deal  wouldn't  be  more  than  started !  " 

He  talked  over  the  loves  of  other  men  with  those  horses, 
earnestly,  soberly.  He  recalled  the  marriages  he  had  known 
between  men  and  women  who  were  from  the  same  stocks, 
who  knew  none  but  the  same  life;  so  many  were  failures! 
And  this  girl,  this  girl  of  whom  he  dreamed  at  night  and 
thought  by  day,  scarcely  yet  spoke  his  language! 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  121 

But  he  could  not  argue  away  the  disturbing  impulse.  He 
could  cover  it,  hide  it  froni  others,  hide  it  from  himself  at 
times,  but  drive  it  out?     Never! 

Tom's  report  to  Jane  after  his  trip  to  town  offered  no  en- 
couragement. The  filing  had  been  legally  accomplished  and 
its  significance  was  further  impressed  on  the  girl  when  he 
said : 

"  It's  a  mighty  popular  subject  in  town,  ma'am.  Every- 
body's interested." 

"  I  suppose  they  all  think  it  will  mean  trouble  for  me  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  an'  they're  likely  to  be  right." 

She  shook  her  head  sharply. 

"  We  don't  want  trouble,  but  if  it  does  come  we  must 
meet  it  half  way !  "  She  leaned  forward  determinedly  and 
Beck  stirred  in  his  chair.  It  was  a  gesture  of  dehght  for 
those  were  almost  his  very  words  to  Hepburn  when  they 
cleared  their  relationships  of  pretense ;  but  he  said  only : 

"  That's  the  easiest  way  to  take  trouble  on." 

Just  then  Hepburn  came  in  with  his  report  on  his  visit 
to  the  Hole. 

"  The  old  fellow  seems  reasonable,  Miss  Hunter,"  he 
said  ponderously.  "  He  don't  look  like  he's  a  permanent 
neighbor  even  if  he  has  bought  some  cows  from  Webb, 
which  I  found  out  today.  He's  poor  as  a  church  mouse  to 
begin  with  — " 

"  And  buyin'  more  cattle  ?  "  put  in  Beck. 

"  Oh,  they  were  old  stock  an'  I  guess  Webb  was  glad 
to  get  rid  of  'em,"  the  foreman  said  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
yet  he  did  not  return  Beck's  searching  gaze. 

*'  Cole  told  me  he  didn't  have  any  intention  of  fencin*  up 
the  water  so  I  guess  there  ain't  anything  to  fret  you.  Miss 
Hunter.  I  sounded  him  out  on  buyin'  but  didn't  get  far. 
He's  a  shiftless  old  cuss,  from  th'  look  of  things,  so  I  don't 
anticipate  any  trouble  at  all.  He  may  not  even  last  the 
summer  out." 

Tom  left  and  afterward  Hepburn  talked  at  length  of  the 


122  THE  LAST  STRAW 

situation,  minimizing  the  menace  the  others  saw,  urging 
Jane  to  put  the  matter  out  of  her  mind.  But  the  girl  was 
not  satisfied  and  the  next  day,  with  Tom,  rode  off  toward 
the  Hole. 

They  made  an  early  start,  riding  out  of  the  ranch  just  as 
the  sun  topped  the  heights  to  the  eastward.  Dew  hung 
heavily  on  the  sage  from  which  fresh,  clean  fragrance  rose 
as  their  horses  stirred  the  brush.  Their  shadows  were 
thrown  far  in  advance  as  they  followed  a  narrow  gulch  and 
the  sunlight  was  caught  and  concentrated  and  scattered  again 
as  the  drops  flew  from  leaf  and  twig. 

The  girl  breathed  deeply  of  the  light,  sweet  air  and  looked 
at  Beck  with  a  little  laugh  as  of  relief. 

"  When  I  sit  at  that  desk,  I  feel  like  a  prosaic  business 
woman  whose  interest  is  in  ledgers,"  she  said,  '*  but  when 
I  ride  in  this  country  I  feel  like  a  character  in  some  romantic 
story." 

Tom  scratched  his  chin  thoughtfully. 

*'  That's  too  bad,  -ma'am,"  he  said. 

"  Which  ?  " 

*'  Both." 

"  I  can  see  disadvantages  to  the  first,  but  why  the  other  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  ain't  struck  much  with  stories.  Used  to  read 
'em,  used  to  get  real  interested  in  some  but  that  was  before  I 
commenced  to  get  interested  in  folks." 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  encouraged  after  a  moment. 

"  You  see,  I  think  the  folks  I  see  and  hear  and  live  with 
and  get  to  know  are  a  lot  more  interestin'  than  the  folks 
somebody's  thought  up  out  of  his  head. 

"  A  man  in  a  book  talks  and  acts  like  a  man  in  a  book  an' 
nothing  else.  You  never  hear  men  talk  out  here  in  the  bunk 
house  or  ridin'  the  country  like  a  writer  would  make  'em  talk 
on  the  page  of  a  book ;  take  my  word  for  that.  .  .  . 

"  Folks  are  mighty  interestin'.  The  best  fun  I  get  is 
watching  folks,  studying  them.  It's  a  lot  more  fun  than 
reading  about  some  man  or  woman  you  know  ain't  real, 
ma'am. 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  123 

**  Life  is  mighty  interesting  if  you  look  at  it  right.  If 
you  try  to  glorify  and  lie  about  it  you  cheapen  the  whole 
works.  It's  either  damned  serious  or  a  joke.  There's  no 
in  between.  I  don't  know  which  it  is,  yet,  but  I  do  know 
that  most  of  the  books  I  ever  read  was  th'  in-between  kind, 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other. 

**  I've  been  around  considerable  among  men  but  I  never 
seen  things  happen  in  life  like  writers  make  things  happen 
m  books.  Everything  works  out  so  lovely  in  books,  folks 
never  make  mistakes  in  anything  .  .  .  that  is,  the  heroes 
don't.     Why,  love  even  works  out  right  in  books !  " 

He  spoke  the  last  in  a  lowered  voice  as  if  he  talked  of  a 
sacred  thing  that  had  been  mistreated.  Unconsciously  he 
had  voiced  the  fear  that  had  grown  in  his  own  soul  and 
when  he  turned  to  look  at  her  his  eyes  reflected  a  queer  men- 
tal conflict,  almost  fright! 

She  caught  something  of  his  mood  and  waited  a  moment 
to  summon  the  courage  to  ask  very  gently : 

"  And  doesn't  it  .  .  .  doesn't  love  work  out  in  life  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Seldom,  ma'am.  In  books  folks  gamble  with  it  like  it 
"was  .  .  .  why,  ma'am,  like  their  love  was  a  white  chip !  " 

Again  he  spoke  as  of  a  sacrilege  and  his  earnestness, 
though  he  did  not  appear  to  be  thinking  of  her,  confused  the 
girl.  The  wordless  interval  which  followed  was  distressing 
to  her  so  she  said : 

"  And  the  other  forms  of  expression  ?  Music  ?  Poetry  ? 
Painting  ?  " 

"  You've  got  me  on  music,"  he  confessed  with  a  laugh. 
**  Tve  heard  greasers  playin'  fandangoes  on  busted  old  gui- 
tars that  sounded  a  lot  sweeter  to  me  than  any  band  I  ever 
heard. 

As  for  poetry  ...  I  don't  know," —  shaking  his  head. 

I  read  some ;  tried  to  understand  it,  but  it  seems  all  messed 
up  with  words  as  if  poets  liked  to  take  the  long,  painful  way 
of  telling  things. 

"  I  expect  poets  want  to  tell  something  that's  sort  of  .  .  • 


124  THE  LAST  STRAW 

delicate  an'  beautiful.  .  .  .  Now  and  then  I've  got  a  funny- 
feel  out  of  poetry,  but  it  ain't  anything  to  me  like,  say,  seeing 
a  bunch  of  little  quail  run  along  under  the  brush,  heads  up, 
lookin'  back  at  you,  whistlin'  to  each  other.  That's  the 
most  delicate  thing  I've  ever  seen  or  heard.  .  .  . 

**  I've  seen  some  paintings,  in  Los  and  San  Francisco ; 
once  in  Chicago  and  once  in  Denver.  I  don't  know.  They 
don't  gtt  my  idea  of  it.  I  never  want  to  see  anything  more 
beautiful  than  sunrise  over  the  Grand  Canon,  or  sunsets  over 
these  hills,  dust  storm  on  the  desert,  snow  blowin'  before  a 
norther  off  the  ridges,  and  things  like  that.  God,  who's  such 
a  close  friend  to  the  Reverend,  and  who  I  don't  know  much 
about,  is  as  good  a  painter  as  any  I've  ever  seen." 

He  said  no  more  but  rode  apparently  thinking  of  much 
more  that  might  be  said  and  Jane  watched  him  carefully,  a 
hungry  look  coming  into  her  eyes.  His  words  had  partly 
analyzed  him  for  her : 

He  was  real. 

He  was  the  most  real  human  being  she  had  ever  known, 
real  because  he  lived  a  real  life,  because  he  appreciated 
realities ;  he  was  sufficient  to  himself,  finding  such  an  inter- 
est in  life  about  him  that  his  own  impressions  and  reactions 
occupied  the  foreground  of  his  consciousness. 

All  her  life  she  had  been  fed  on  the  artificial,  living  on  a 
soft  pad  of  unrealities  which  softened  and  hid  the  bed-rock 
foundation  of  existence  from  her.  Within  the  last  weeks 
she  had  had  her  first  taste  of  the  real,  was  face  to  face  with 
life  and  with  herself;  it  had  been  sweet  and  inspiring;  she 
felt  a  great  urge  for  more  of  that  experience  and  her  mind 
sped  ahead  into  the  vague  future,  the  future  which  her  im.ag- 
ination  could  not  even  conjure  because  the  new  foundation 
beneath  her  feet  was  as  yet  unfamiliar.  But  for  all  that 
vagueness  she  thrilled  and  as  she  peered  forward  eagerly 
she  saw  this  man,  this  clean,  frank  man  ever  at  her  side.   .  .  . 

And  yet  he  had  spoken  of  love  as  a  gamble  which  did  not 
work  itself  out  in  life !  A  sharp  stab  of  shame  shot  through 
her  heart,  for  she  had  once  handled  her  love  as  though  it 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  125 

had  been  a  white  chip,  she  had  been  willing  to  chance  it  as 
a  thing  of  little  value  and  she  knew  that  to  him  that  would 
be  the  outraging  of  a  sacred  thing. 

And  again  she  heard  the  pronouncement  of  Hilton :  You 
cannot  stand  alone !  You  will  fail !  A  knave,  she  now 
knew,  but  he  knew  her  as  she  had  been.  And  could  he  be 
right?  Could  she  measure  up  to  where  a  real  man's  love 
would  not  be  wasted  upon  her?  She  did  not  know;  she 
dared  not  think  further,  so  driving  back  these  doubts,  she 
said: 

"  There's  one  question  I  want  to  ask  and  I  want  your 
honest  answer.     What  is  your  opinion  of  Hepburn  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  that  twinkle  in  his  eye  again. 

"In  just  what  way,  ma'am?" 

"  At  times  he  seems  reluctant  to  talk  to  me,  as  though  he 
knew  more  than  he  wanted  to  tell  and  again  I've  had  a  no- 
tion he  didn't  want  me  asking  about  certain  ranch  matters 
at  all. 

"  I  confess  to  you  that  with  all  the  talk  of  thieving  I've 
wondered  if  he  didn't  know  more  about  it  than  he  gave  me 
to  understand,  but  what  he  did  the  other  day  seems,  in  all 
reason,  to  wipe  that  suspicion  out." 

He  said :  "  It  seems  you've  answered  your  own  question. 
When  you've  said  that  he  went  a  long  ways  to  prove  that 
he's  the  man  you  want  by  what  he's  just  done,  you've  said 
all  there  was  to  say." 

"  But  do  you  mean  that?  Are  you  keeping  some  suspicion 
of  your  ow^n  from  me  ?  " 

He  deliberated  a  moment,  then  smiled. 

"  It's  easy  to  suspect  but  it  don't  pay  very  big  until  you 
know   somethin'.     Then  you  don't  need  to." 

They  climbed  out  of  the  gulch,  horses  breathing  loudly  as 
they  made  the  last  steep  ascent  and  gained  the  ridge  they 
were  to  follow  and  there  was  little  more  talk  until  they 
stopped  and  sat  looking  down  across  the  great  flat-bottomed 
cavity  of  Devil's  Hole.  It  was  a  pear-shaped  depression, 
perhaps  four  miles  from  rim  to  rim  at  the  widest  point  and 


126  THE  LAST  STRAW 

fully  a  score  of  miles  in  length.  Its  sides  were  sprinkled 
with  cedars  which  clung  to  the  sheer  <:liffs  determinedly,  but 
its  bottom  was  blanketed  with  thrifty  sage  brush,  purple  in 
the  sunlight  that  was  just  then  slanting  across  the  floor  and 
beneath  this  sheen  they  could  see  the  bright  green  of  new 
grasses.  A  dark  line  marked  with  the  clarity  of  a  map 
the  course  of  the  creek  and  half  way  down  toward  the 
neck  of  the  Hole  was  a  small  cabin  erected  by  the  man 
who  had  filed  on  the  land  for  Colonel  Hunter  and  who  had 
drifted  on  without  establishing  title. 

"  There's  your  neighbor,"   Beck  said. 

Jane  looked  for  a  moment,  then  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
country  which  showed  through  the  narrow  outlet  of  the 
deep  valley.  Behind  her  endless  ridges  tossed  upward  to 
a  sharp  horizon,  but  out  through  that  gap  the  range  lay  in 
a  vast  basin,  rising  gently  to  diminutive  lavendar  buttes 
plastered  against  the  sky  many  miles  away.  It  seemed  soft 
and  vague  and  unreal  .  .  .  like  one  of  the  unreal  paintings 
'Beck  had  seen  hanging  within  walls. 

Tom  led  the  way  through  trees  and  among  upstanding 
ledges  of  rock  into  the  narrow,  dangerous  trail  and  as  he 
went  down,  his  big  roan  picking  the  way  quickly  yet  cau- 
tiously, he  half  turned  in  his  saddle  to  explain  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  descent. 

It  was  the  only  egress  on  that  side  of  the  Hole.  There 
was  one  trail  on  the  far  side,  so  steep  and  hazardous 
that  a  man  must  lead  his  horse  either  up  or  down.  The 
only  other  outlet  was  through  the  narrow  Gap  where  the 
wash  of  flood  water  during  storms  had  made  the  going 
easy  for  men  and  stock.  Out  to  the  northwest,  however,  lay 
miles  of  desert,  the  great  basin  of  which  Jane  had  had  a 
glimpse,  well  enough  to  use  for  range  in  three  seasons,  but 
in  summer  it  became  parched  and  useless.  In  the  Hole 
cattle  could  feed  on  the  abundant  gramma,  could  drink 
from  the  creek,  but  getting  them  out  and  over  the  divide 
to  the  more  plentiful  water  of  Coyote  Creek  was  an  under- 
taking. 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  127 

"  That's  the  danger,"  he  told  her,  ''  It's  a  long,  hard  climb 
for  stock  in  good  shape,  but  if  anything  should  happen  to 
prevent  your  stock  from  drinkin'  down  here  and  they  should 
get  low  from  lack  of  water,  why  then  you'd  leave  a  lot  of 
*em  down  there  if  you  tried  to  bring  'em  up." 

He  pointed  over  the  abrupt  drop  at  his  left  where  a 
pebble  would  fall  hundreds  of  feet  before  striking  again  and 
as  he  indicated  his  right  chap  scrubbed  the  face  of  the 
cliff,  so  narrow  was  the  way  to  which  they  clung. 

Finally  they  reached  the  flat  and  swung  along  at  a  free 
trot  through  the  brash  sage. 

"  There's  water  here  now,"  he  explained,  as  they  followed 
the  steep  creek  bank,  ''  but  that  don't  last.  It's  mighty  low 
right  this  mornin'.  The  creek  sinks  when  it  don't  rain 
an'  its  been  comin'  up  in  just  one  spot  for  years.  That's 
what  makes  a  nester  dangerous  for  you." 

They  approached  the  cabin.  A  mare  and  a  newly  born 
colt  eyed  them  suspiciously.  An  ancient  wagon,  its  top  tat- 
tered, its  tires  red  with  rust,  stood  close  beside  a  frail 
corral.  Fire  wood  was  scattered  about ;  here  was  an  axe 
with  a  broken  helve,  there  a  rust-eaten  shovel,  and  the  whole 
place  spoke  of  poverty. 

And  yet  piled  against  the  cabin  was  spool  upon  spool 
of  new  barbed  wire! 

*'  Fence  !  "  muttered  Beck. 

"But   Mr.   Hepburn   said—" 

"  Yeah,  I  recall  what  he  said?'' 

Just  then  the  canvas  which  served  as  a  door  was  thrown 
back  and  the  girl  stepped  out.  She  stood  just  across  the 
threshold  looking  at  them,  sullen  and  defiant. 

**  Good-morning,"  said  Jane. 

"  Howdy,"  replied  the  girl  indifferently. 

An  awkward  pause.  Surely,  she  would  volunteer"  no 
more  and  Beck  asked : 

"  Your  dad  around  ?  " 

**  What  do  you  want  with  him?  " — a  demand  rather  than 
a  question. 


128  THE  LAST  STRAW 


ti 


"  I  am  Miss  Hunter.     I  own  the  — " 

"  Oh,  I  know  who  you  are ! "  the  girl  cut  in  defiantly. 

"  I  came  down  to  talk  to  your  father.  We  are  neigh- 
bors. If  we  are  to  be  good  neighbors  there  are  things  we 
must  discuss.'' 

Jane  was  unpoised  by  the  attitude  of  the  other  but  she 
dismounted  and  walked  toward  the  cabin. 

What  did  you  want  with  him  ?  "  the  girl  asked  again. 
I  want  to  ask  some  things  about  your  plans." 

"  And  what  is  our  business  to  you  ? "  The  girl's  eyes 
snapped  and  her  vivid  color  intensified. 

"  It  may  be  a  great  deal  to  me.  That  is  why  I  am  frank 
in  coming  here.  For  years  this  place  has  been  range  for 
H  C  cattle.  Recently  water  has  been  short.  You  have 
wire  and  evidently  are  going  to  fence. 

"  I  don't  come  as  an  enemy.  Now  that  you  are  here 
I  want  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  But  you  don't  want  us  here !  " 

The  simple  declaration,  voiced  with  that  same  defiance, 
confused  Jane ;  then  she  met  the  other  on  her  own  ground. 

"  No,  we  don't  want  you  here  unless  you  will  work  with 
us  as  we  all  try  to  work  together.  I  think  you  will  do 
that  because  it  is  the  wiser  — " 

"  So  you  start  out  workin'  with  us  by  lookin'  up  our 
claim,  the  way  we  filed  it,  before  you  come  to  talk !  " 

"Yes,  I  did  that,'' — frankly.  ''I  wanted  to  be  sure  just 
what  your  rights  were  before  I  came  to  talk  business." 

"  Well,  you  know  now.  You  know  no  lawyers  can  run 
us  ofif.  Ain't  that  enough?  If  you  know  we've  got  rights, 
what  do  you  come  here  for?"  She  stopped,  but  before 
Jane  could  reply  went  on,  her  eyes  flashing  sudden  heat: 
''  You  don't  want  us  here  but  we've  come  to  stay  an'  from 
the  way  you've  started  in  to  talk  your  business  I  guess 
that's  all  you'll  find  out." 

Jane  eyed  her  for  an  interval  then  said : 

"  You  and  I  are  the  only  women  for  miles  about  in 
this  country.     We  are  near  neighbors  as  neighbors  go  in 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  129 

the  mountains;  do  you  think  this  is  the  best  way  to  start 
in  being  friends  ?  " 

"  Who  said  anything  about  bein'  friends  ?  " 

**  I  want  to  be  your  friend."  The  sincerity  of  this  balked 
the  girl  and  her  eyes  became  puzzled.  "  I  want  to  be  your 
friend  and  want  you  for  my  friend.  We  can  help  each 
other  in  a  good  many  ways." 

"  I  don't  recollect  askin'  for  your  help." 

"  No,  but  I  wan4:  to  give  it  to  you  and  I  want  to  ask 
yours  in  return.  We  are  here  in  a  big  country.  We  are 
ail  dependent  to  an  extent  on  those  about  us.  None  of  us 
can  get  along  so  well  alone  as  we  can  by  working  to- 
gether." 

"  Like  turnin'  folks  out  in  the  rain  at  night,  for  in- 
i;tance  ?  " 

Jane's  cheeks  flamed. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Think  it  over  an'  maybe  you  will !  " 

The  girl's  eyes  blazed  uncovered  hate,  but  as  they  took 
Jane  in  again  from  hat  to  boots  a  curious  envy  showed 
in  them. 

'*  I've  seen  how  much  you  big  outfits  want  to  help  poor 
folks  before,"  she  said.  "  I  know  all  about  that," —  bitterly. 
^'  Maybe  it's  a  good  thing  you  come  here  today  so  you'll 
get  to  understand,  first  hand,  instead  of  sendin'  your  men 
around  to  learn  things  for  you. 

"  We've  come  a  long  ways.  We've  been  on  th'  move  ever 
since  I  can  recollect.  Folks  have  offered  to  help  us  be- 
fore, an'  they  have  helped  us  ...  to  decide  to  move. 
We've  come  to  stay  here;  we  can  take  care  of  ourselves; 
we  don't  ask  nothin'  but  to  be  let  alone,  an'  we're  goin'  to 
be  let  alone  if  we  have  to  make  it  stick  with  gun  play." 

She  had  advanced  and,  hands  on  her  hips,  weight  on  one 
foot,  spoke  the  last  with  her  face  close  to  Jane's,  her  head 
nodding  in  slow  emphasis. 

"  I  trust  it  won't  come  to  that,"  Jane  said  evenly.  She 
had  not  flinched,  but  studied  the  girl  carefully,  impersonally, 


130  THE  LAST  STRAW 

though  the  color  in  her  cheeks  had  died;  her  face  was  in 
repose,  her  bearing  dignified  and  assured,  yet  without 
suggestion  of  any  superficial  superiority.  "If  it  does  come 
to  that  it  will  not  be  because  I  am  unwilling  to  do  all  that 
is  reasonable.  I  have  come  down  here  to  talk  to  you,  which 
should  be  evidence  of  my  good  faith ;  I  have  been  frank. 
You  meet  me  as  though  I  had  come  to  cheat  you  or  drive 
you  out.     I  don't  think  that  is  fair." 

The  other  drew  back  a  step,  clearly  puzzled  again.  Her 
face,  in  spite  of  its  forbidding  expression,  was  very  beau- 
tiful. 

"  That  sounds  all  right,"  she  said  at  length,  *'  but  I've 
heard  it  before  and  I  know  how  much  it's  worth.  You  ain't 
my  kind.  You  don't  belong  here  and  I  do.  You  don't  want 
to  be  my  friend  .  .  .  you  wouldn't  know  how. 

"  All  we  want  is  to  be  let  alone.  Our  business  ain't  yours 
an'  we  won't  try  to  make  yours  ours.  Have  you  said  all  you 
wanted  to  say  ?  " 

'*  No,  not  quite  all,  but  if  you  won't  listen  to  me,  if  you 
won't  believe  me,  there  is  only  one  more  thing  I  can  say: 
You  will  know  where  to  find  me  any  time  you  want  to  talk 
to  me.  I  will  be  ready  to  work  with  you,  to  do  my  share, 
and  maybe  a  little  more.  I  hope  there  will  be  no  trouble, 
for  it  would  force  me  to  make  my  share  of  that," 

She  turned  abruptly  and  walked  toward  Beck. 

The  man  had  purposely  held  aloof  to  watch  the  en- 
counter between  the  two  women.  He  had  been  certain  that 
the  meeting  would  be  anything  but  amicable  and  it  was 
like  other  situations  into  which  he  had  let  Jane  Hunter 
walk,  needlessly  and  only  to  see  how  she  would  handle 
herself.  Usually  the  result  only  amused  him  but  today 
he  had  watched  Jane  bear  up  admirably  under  difficult  cir- 
cumstances, refusing  to  be  angered  or  confused,  refusing 
to  plead  yet,  while  retaining  dignity,  leaving  the  door  to 
friendship  open. 

As  Jane  mounted  Bobby  Cole  stepped  back  into  the  cabin 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL*  131 

with  no  word  and  the  riders  turned  back  on  the  way  they 
had  come. 

**  I've  been  wonderin'/'  Beck  said  after  a  time,  "  how  this 
old  codger  rakes  up  the  dust  to  buy  cattle  and  wire." 

Jane  did  not  reply.  She  wondered  at  that,  too,  but  there 
was  another  wonder  in  her  mind  about  another,  more  human 
mystery,  going  back  to  a  night  of  storm  in  the  heavens 
and  storm  in  hearts.  How  did  Bobby  Cole  know  she  had 
turned  Dick  Hilton  out? 

As  they  went  silently  each  thinking  of  significant  things 
which  had  been  revealed  the  girl  threw  back  the  curtain 
in  the  doorway  and  watched  them. 

"  I  hate  you !  "  she  whispered  at  Jane  Hunter.  ''  I  hate 
you !  .  .  .  Because  you  turned  him  out  .  .  .  because  you're 
.  .  .  youVe  you." 

She  stood  a  long  time  watching  them  and  with  the  dark- 
ness in  her  face  another  quality  finally  mingled:  that  envy 
again. 

After  a  time  Jane  said: 

"  A  queer  creature,  that  girl." 

"  On  the  peck  from  the  start !  "  Beck  replied. 

"  And  beautiful !  " 

"  Ain't  she,  though  ?  .  .  .  Poor  kid !  I've  seen  'em  be- 
fore, kids  of  movers  like  that,  not  so  good  looking  not  so 
smart  as  she  is,  but  like  her  because  they  was  always 
suspicious,  always  ready  to  scrap.  .  .  . 

"  That's  because  they've  never  had  a  chance  to  be  decent, 
brought  up  in  a  wagon  that  way." 

*'  A  shame !  "  Jane  whispered. 

"  I  like  kids,"  he  said  later,  as  though  his  mind  had  been 
on  nothing  else.  "  I  like  all  kids,  but  I  feel  sorry  for  a  lot 
of  'em  .  .  .  for  most  of  'em.  .  .  .  Every  kid  that's  born 
ought  to  have  a  chance,  a  fair  show  against  the  world,  be- 
cause the  old  world  don't  seem  to  like  kids  any  too  much. 

"  That  girl  didn't  have  a  chance,  never  will  have  it.  She 
was  marked  from  the  day  she  was  born. 


132  THE  LAST  STRAW 

'*  Why,  ma'am,  one  winter  I  worked  for  a  cow  man 
down  in  the  Salt  River  valley  which  is  in  Arizona.  He 
didn't  have  a  big  outfit,  he  didn't  have  much  luck ;  trouble 
with  his  water,  his  cattle  got  sick  and  his  horses  didn't  do 
well  and  he  had  just  one  dose  of  trouble  after  another. 

"  But  he  had  three  kids,  all  in  a  row  they  seemed," — 
indicating  progressive  heights  with  his  hand.  "  I  think 
they  was  the  happiest  kids  I've  ever  seen.  I  always  think 
of  'em  when  I  see  kids  that've  had  to  grow  up  like  that 
girl.  I  remember  those  mornin's  when  we  used  to  start 
out  for  a  day's  ride,  looking  back  and  seeing  those  kids 
playing  in  the  dirt  beside  the  rose  bushes.  Their  clothes 
was  dirty  the  minute  they  stepped  outside  and  their  hands 
an'  faces  was  a  sight  from  the  'dobe,  but  there  was  roses 
in  their  cheeks  as  bright  as  th'  roses  on  the  bushes  and  they 
laughed  loud  and  their  eyes  always  smiled  .  .  .  like  that 
Arizona  sky,  which  ain't  got  a  match  anywhere.  .  .  . 

*'  This  man  and  his  wife  just  buckled  down  an'  bucked 
old  Mister  Hard  Luck  from  the  word  Go,  for  them  kids ! 
They  sure  thought  the  world  of  'em.  I  guess  that  was 
what  put  the  roses  in  their  cheeks  an'  the  smiles  in  their 
eyes.  .  .  . 

"  I'll  never  forget  those  kids  by  the  rose  bushes  with 
somebody  to  care  for  'em,  an'  work  their  hearts  out  for  'em. 
That's  the  way  kids  ought  to  grow  up;  not  like  that  cata- 
mount grew  up." 

He  smiled  in  reminiscence  and  his  smile  was  tender. 

"  Roses  and  kids,"  he  repeated  after  a  while.  *'  They 
ought  to  go  together." 

He  looked  at  Jane  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filmed. 

She  rode  closer  to  him,  until  her  knee  touched  his  chap 
and  said : 

"  I  think  that  is  beautiful:  Roses  and  kids.  I  shall  al- 
ways remember  it;  always.  ..." 

She  knew,  now,  the  man  she  loved,  the  man  whose  love 
she  would  win,  the  man  behind  that  exasperating  front  of 
caution.     His  clear  eyes  and  keen  mind  were  interested  only 


A  NEIGHBORLY  CALL  133 

in  realities  and  yet  he  could  display  a  tenderness  more 
delicate  than  she  had  ever  before  encountered  in  men.  He 
was  strong,  and  as  gentle  as  he  was  strong;  he  was  gener- 
ous while  a  skeptic;  he  had  poise  and  personality.  And  he 
could  liken  love  to  a  poker  chip ;  without  using  the  word 
make  her  know  that  he  held  love  sacred ! 

She   raised  her  hand   to   that  locket  again  and   held   it 
tightly  in  her  small  palm. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   FRAME-UP 

THE  water  in  Devil's  Hole  was  fenced. 
It  was  the  Reverend  who  brought  word  of  the 
fencing.  He  had  made  a  circuit  of  the  ranches,  holding 
services  and  selling  pens,  and  on  his  way  back  from  the 
lower  reaches  of  Coyote  Creek  he  stopped  to  call  on  the 
Coles.  His  visit  was  not  financially  productive  but  he  did 
see  long  rows  of  posts  set  by  three  Mexicans,  and  saw 
wire  being  stretched  on  them. 

Another  thing  he  saw,  which  he  did  not  mention  to 
Hepburn:  He  saw  Bobby  Cole  riding  beside  a  man,  a 
man  who  did  not  wear  the  dress  of  her  country  but  who 
wore  swagger  riding  clothes;  who  did  not  talk  with  the 
self  consciousness  of  a  mountain  man  who  rides  beside  a 
pretty  girl,  but  who  leaned  toward  her  and  talked  engagingly, 
so  engagingly  that  the  girl  lost  her  hostile  attitude  and 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  wide,  eager  eyes. 

The  fencing  stirred  the  country  as  nothing  had  done 
since  the  first  and  only  time  sheep  bands  attempted  to  come 
in.  There  was  talk  of  it  in  town,  there  was  talk  of  it  when 
men  met  on  trail  or  road,  there  was  talk  of  it  in  ranch 
houses  down  the  creek  and  there  was  talk  of  it  elsewhere, 
at  length,  in  stealthy  jubilation.  .  .  . 

Riley  of  the  Bar  Z  rode  the  thirty  miles  from  his  ranch 
to  discuss  it  with  Jane  Hunter. 

*'  I  don't  guess  you  quite  understand  how  serious  it  is. 
Miss  Hunter,"  he  said  after  they  had  talked  a  time.  "  Do 
you  realize  that  if  we  have  a  dry  summer — ^and  it's  startin' 
out  that  way  —  that  this  is  goin'  to  cut  your  cattle  off  some 
of  your  best  range.     It  may  break  you." 

134 


THE  FRAME-UP  135 

"  I  understand  that,  Mr.  Riley,"  she  said,  leaning  across 
her  desk,  "  but  there  are  other  things  I  do  not  understand 
and  I  am  incHned  to  beheve  that  they  are  of  first  importance. 
Without  understanding  them,  this  condition  can  not  be 
remedied." 

He  gave  evidence  of  his  surprise. 

"  Vm  not  wanted  here,"  she  went  on.  "  I'm  not  wanted 
because  the  H  C  is  a  rich  prize.  It  seems  to  be  the  accepted 
opinion  that  I  cannot  stay,  that  I  will  be  unable  to  stand 
my  ground. 

"  I  want  to  know  why!  I  want  to  know  who  is  going  to 
drive  me  out.  Some  one  is  behind  this  nester,  I  am  con- 
vinced, and  it  is  the  influence  behind  the  things  we  can 
see  that  is  dangerous.  Loss  of  range  is  serious,  surely ;  but 
by  what  manner  has  that  range  been  lost.  That  is  what 
I  want  to  know  !  " 

Riley  eyed  her  with  approval. 

"  I  came  up  here  with  the  idea  that  you  didn't  under- 
stand but  I  guess  you  do,"  he  said  quietly.  "  You've  got  the 
situation  sized  up  right,  but  there's  one  thing  I  want  to 
tell  you :  So  far  only  one  blow  has  been  struck ;  it  has 
fallen  on  you.  The  next  and  the  next  may  fall  on  you,  but 
every  time  you  are  hurt  it's  goin'  to  hurt  the  rest  of  us. 
That  makes  your  fight  our  fight.  ...  If  you  fail,  others 
are  likely  to  fail. 

"  I've  lived  here  too  long  in  peace  after  fighting  for  that 
peace,  to  stand  by  and  see  trouble  start  again  if  I  can  help 
it.  I'm  of  the  old  school,  Miss  Hunter;  your  uncle  and 
I  came  in  here  together.  I  think  a  lot  of  his  ranch  and 
.  .  .  well,  if  it  comes  to  a  fight  I  can  fight  again  beside  his 
heir  as  I  fought  by  his  side. 

*'  It  won't  be  pleasant  for  a  woman.  Cattle  wars  ain't 
gentle  affairs.  They  can't  be  if  they're  going  to  be  short 
wars.  There's  three  things  to  be  used;  just  three:  guns 
an'  rope  and  nerve." 

"  I  trust  I  can  stand  unpleasantness  if  necessary,"  was 
her  reply. 


136  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Riley  was  impressed  with  the  girl's  courage  btit  like  the 
others  he  was  reluctant  to  believe  that  she  was  made  of  the 
stuff  that  could  recognize  disaster  and  fight  it  out,  her 
strength  unweakened  by  panic. 

Another  visitor  was  there  that  day:  Pat  Webb.  Jimmy 
Oliver  had  found  one  of  his  colts  badly  cut  by  wire  and 
had  brought  it  in.  Webb  had  come  to  see  the  animal  and 
had  lingered  to  talk  intimately  with  Hepburn. 

This  gave  Beck  much  to  think  about. 

He  was  saddling  his  horse  at  noon  when  Hepburn  ap- 
proached and  asked  his  plans  for  the  balance  of  the  day. 

*'  It  depends  on  what  I  find.  I'm  after  horses  first,  but 
I  might  have  a  look  at  other  things.  There's  so  damned 
much  happenin'  around  here  that  it  pays  a  man  to  look 
sharp." 

"  You'd  better  cut  out  that  sort  of  talk,  Beck ! " 

"  What  talk  ?  " —  mockingly.  "  Seems  to  me  if  you  didn't 
know  any  more  than  I  do  you  wouldn't  be  so  easily  roiled  up, 
Hepburn." 

"  You  mind  your  business  and  I'll  look  after  mine,"  the 
foreman  warned,  breathing  heavily.  "  About  one  more 
break  from  you  and  we'll  part  company." 

His  eyes  glittered  ominously  and  his  face  was  malicious. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  surprised.  This  outfit's  a  little  too  small 
for  you  and  me.  It  seems  to  shrink  every  day,  Dad. 
Maybe,  sometime,  you'll  have  to  go,  but  just  keep  this  in 
your  head:  I've  promised  Miss  Hunter  to  stay  and  my 
word  is  good." 

He  mounted  and  Hepburn,  walking  slowly  toward  the 
stable,  twirled  his  mustache  speculatively,  one  eye  lid 
drooped  as  though  he  saw  faintly  a  plan  which  promised  to 
solve  perplexities. 

Beck  was  cautious  that  afternoon,  as  he  had  trained  him- 
self to  be  when  riding  alone.  He  kept  an  eye  on  the  back 
trail  and  scanned  both  gulches  when  he  rode  a  ridge;  but 
cautious  as  he  was  he  did  not  see  the  two  riders  who  sat  on 


THE  TRAME-UP  137. 

quiet  horses  beneath  a  spreading  juniper  tree  at  the  head 
of  Twenty  Mile. 

It  was  after  dark  when  he  returned  to  the  ranch  and  the 
moon  was  just  commencing  to  show.  The  others  were  at 
supper.  He  threw  his  gun  and  chaps  into  the  bunk  house 
and  fed  his  horse.  As  he  walked  down  toward  the  ranch 
house  the  other  men  were  straggling  out  and  their  dining 
room  was  empty.  Carlotta  brought  him  steaming  food  and 
he  ate  with  gusto. 

When  he  had  nearly  finished  Jane  entered  and  he  started 
to  rise,  but  she  made  him  remain  seated. 

'*  What  do  you  suppose  that  man  Webb  is  doing  here?'* 
she  asked.  "  Hepburn  explains  that  he  is  trying  to  arrange 
to  send  a  representative  with  our  round-up.'* 

"  Whatever  he's  doin'  here,  it  ain't  for  your  good,"  he 
replied. 

"  Nor  yours." 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  mine,  ma'am  and  unless  he's  a 
lot  smarter  than  I  think  he  is,  or  unless  he's  got  lots  of 
help,  don't  figure  he's  goin'  to  do  you  any  great  harm. 
He's  just  a  low-down — " 

A  man  was  running  toward  the  house  and  he  broke  off  ta 
listen. 

Two-Bits  came  hurriedly  into  the  room,  eyes  wnde, 
face  white,  showing  none  of  his  usual  confusion  at  Jane's 
presence. 

"  Tommy,  they  want  you,"  he  said  unnaturally. 

"  Yeah  ?     What  for,  Two-Bits  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Tommy.  Hepburn  an'  Riley  an'  W^ebb  an' 
the  rest  want  you.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  Tommy,  but  it 
must  be  serious." 

Tom  saw  the  anxiety  in  Jane's  eyes.  She  did  not  put  her 
query  into  words ;  it  was  not  necessary ;  he  knew  and  an- 
swered : 

"  I  ain't  got  an  idea,  ma'am,  but  I'll  go  find  out.  You're 
all  wound  up,  Two-Bits !  " —  laughing. 


138  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  My  gosh,  Tommy,  they  acted  funny.  Have  you  done 
anything?"  the  cowboy  asked  in  an  undertone  as  they  left 
the  house. 

"  A  lot,  Two-Bits.  I  sure  hope  they  don't  go  proddin' 
into  my  awful  past!  There's  some  terrible  things  they 
might  find !  " 

He  hooked  his  arm  through  the  other's  and  laughed  at 
the  boy's  apprehension. 

But  Beck  knew  that  something  of  grave  consequence  im- 
pended the  instant  he  set  foot  in  the  bunk  house  for  the 
men,  who  had  been  talking  lowly,  stopped  and  eyed  him  in 
sober  silence.  Afterward  he  had  a  distinct  recollection  of 
Two-Bits  slipping  along  the  wall,  looking  at  him  over  his 
shoulder  with  the  freckles  showing  in  great  blotches  against 
his  white  skin.  Hepburn,  Riley  and  Webb  sat  on  one  bed. 
The  foreman  was  leaning  back,  hands  clasping  a  knee,  but 
he  chewed  his  tobacco  with  nervous  vigor. 

''  The  Reverend  about  to  offer  prayer  ? "  Tom  asked 
easily. 

There  was  no  responsive  smile  on  any  fa'ce.  Someone 
coughed  loudly  and  sharply  as  if  it  had  been  an  unneces- 
sary cough.     Tom  halted. 

"I'm  here.  What's  up?"  he  asked  quietly.  "This  is 
like  a  funeral  ...  or  a  trial." 

At  that  Hepburn  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Want  to  ask  you  somethin'.  Beck.  I  want  you  to  tell 
these  other  men  what  you  said  to  me  this  noon." 

Tom  hitched  up  his  belt. 

"If  you  want  'em  to  know,  w^hy  don't  you  speak  the  piece 
yourself  ?     You  recall  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Better  talk,  Tom,"  Riley  advised. 

"  I  don't  know  what  this  is  all  about ;  I  don't  know  what 
difference  what  I  said  to  Hepburn  can  make  to  the  rest  of 
you,  but  I  respect  your  opinions,  Riley,  and  if  he's  willing 
for  you  to  know  what  I  said,  I  sure  am  willing  to  repeat  it. 

"  Hepburn   and    I've   had  a   little   argument.     It's   been 


THE  FRAME-UP  139 

goin'  on  for  some  time.  He'd  be  pleased  to  have  me  move 
on,  I  take  it,  but  I  sort  of  like  this  outfit." 

"  Go  on,"  Hepburn  said  impatiently. 

"  I  told  you,  Hepburn,  and  I'll  tell  you  again  that  this 
ranch  is  gettin'  a  little  small  to  hold  both  of  us.  It  seems 
to  shrink  every  day  and  I  don't  get  good  elbow  room  any 
more,  but  so  far  as  I'm  concerned  I'm  more  or  less  perma- 
nent." 

Webb  nodded  and  Riley  shifted  uneasily,  looking  from 
Beck  to  Hepburn,  frankly  puzzled. 

'*  Yes,  that's  what  you  said  to  me.  Now  will  you  tell 
the  boys  where  you  rode  this  afternoon  ?  " 

Beck  eyed  him  a  long  moment  and  the  foreman  stared 
back,  assured  but  not  quite  composed,  his  little  eyes  dark. 
Once  he  bit  his  chew  savagely  but  his  expression  did  not 
change. 

"  I  rode  out  of  here  straight  up  Sunny  Gulch,  climbed  out 
at  the  head,  rode  those  little  dry  gulches  as  far  down  as 
Twenty  Mile  and  came  up  the  far  ridge.  Then  I  took  a 
circle  to  the  east  and  came  home  by  the  road." 

''You  admit  bein'  at  the  head  of  Twenty  Mile,  then?"" 

''Admit  it?     Yes." 

"What  time?" 

"  Three  o'clock  or  thereabouts," —  after  a  pause  in  which 
he  considered. 

"  See  any  other  men  ?  " 

"  Not  a  man  until  I  got  back." 

Hepburn  looked  about.  Two-Bits  muttered  lowly  to 
himself.  Riley  dragged  a  spur  across  the  floor  slowly. 
Every  eye  in  the  room  was  on  Beck,  and  Beck's  eyes  were 
on  Hepburn. 

"  Then  will  you  tell  the  boys  how  come  this  ?  " 

The  foreman  drew  a  gun  and  holster  from  behind  him. 
It  was  Beck's  gun.  He  drew  it  from  the  scabbard,  broke  it 
and  dropped  the  cartridges  into  his  palm. 

Three  of  the  shells  were  empty. 


140  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  two  gave  one  another  stare  for  stare.  Hepburn 
was  breathing  rapidly  but  his  look  was  of  a  man  who  faces 
a  crisis  with  all  confidence.  Beck  did  not  move  or  speak. 
His  eyes  smouldered  and  his  face  settled  into  stern  lines. 
Then  that  smouldering  burst  into  blaze  and  before  the 
glare  of  will  the  foreman's  hand,  holding  the  contents  of 
the  revolver  chambers,  trembled.  He  closed  it  quickly  and 
looked  away  and  where  a  moment  before  he  had  been  the 
accuser  he  was  now  on  the  defense.  It  was  determination 
against  determination  and  in  the  conflict  words  were  wrung 
from  him. 

"  Somebody  fired  three  shots  at  me  at  the  head  of  Twenty 
Mile  at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

And  that  sentence,  though  it  was  an  indictment,  was 
voiced  more  in  a  manner  of  defense  than  in  accusation. 
V/ith  it  Beck's  expression  changed ;  it  became  alert,  as 
though  following  some  play  upon  which  great  stakes  hung, 
but  following  intelligently,  not  blind  to  the  way  of  the 
game. 

"  I  can  explain  those  empty  shells.  I  took  a  shot  at  a 
coyote  on  the  way  back.  I  didn't  see  you,  Hepburn,  after  I 
left  here  this  afternoon  until  I  got  back." 

Webb  got  up. 

''  I  guess  that  makes  the  case,"  he  said  to  no  one  in  par- 
ticular. 

Then  to  Tom :  "  I  was  with  Dad ;  he  was  ten  rod  ahead 
of  me.  Th'  shots  come  from  above  and  landed  all  around 
him. 

''  IVe  didn't  have  to  look  very  hard  for  somebody  who 
wants  to  get  rid  of  Dad,  but  we  wanted  it  from  you, 
Beck." 

Triumph  was  in  his  little  beady  eyes  and  on  his  mottled 
face.  There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  Tom  hooked  one 
thumb  in  his  belt,  with  a  slow,  uncertain  movement.  His 
eyes  held  on  Hepburn's  face,  prying,  searching,  striving 
to  force  a  meeting  but  the  other  would  not  look  at  him,  he 
busied  himself  stuffing  the  evidence  into  his  shirt  pocket. 


THE  FRAx\IE-UP  141 

Riley  rose  and  the  low  stir  which  had  followed  the  revela- 
tion subsided. 

**  Isn't  there  something  else  you  want  to  say,  Beck?"  he 
asked.  '*  Didn't  you  see  any  other  man  ?  Can't  you  say 
something  for  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  another  man  this  afternoon,"  the  other  re- 
plied, still  striving  to  make  Hepburn  meet  his  gaze,  "  an'  be- 
sides there  don't  seem  to  be  much  to  say.  I've  told  my 
story.  It's  simple  enough.  .  .  .  You've  heard  the  other 
story,  which  seems  simple  enough.  Now  it's  my  word 
against  Hepburn's  .  .  .  an'  Webb's," —  as  though  the  last 
were  in  afterthought,  and  of  little  matter. 

Riley  faced  the  circle  of  listeners. 

"  This  is  no  boy's  play,"  he  said  grimly.  "  The  foreman 
of  the  biggest  outfit  in  this  country  has  been  shot  at,  shot  at 
by  somebody  who  didn't  come  from  cover  and  give  h:m 
even  a  fair  show  for  a  fight.  We  know  that  there's  been 
bad  blood  between  these  two  men ;  Tommy's  admitted  that. 
I  hate  like  hell  to  think  he  lost  his  head  over  a  quarrel  and 
that  he'd  fight  a  man  from  cover,  but  it  looks  bad. 

**  We  can't  have  this  go  on !  There's  been  stealing  and 
rumors  of  stealing  for  months.  There's  trouble  comin' 
over  water  and  fence.  W^e've  gotten  along  like  good  neigh- 
bors for  years  but  now  trouble  seems  to  be  in  the  air.  I 
don't  see  that  there's  much  to  it  but  to  take  Tom  to  town 
an'  turn  him  over  to  the  sheriff. 

"  Unless," —  facing  Beck.  "  Tommy,  ain  t  there  any- 
thing you  want  to  say?  You've  refused  once  but  I  keep 
thinkin'  you've  got  something  else  you  could  tell  us." 

"  No,  Riley,  I'd  be  taking  a  chance  by  doing  more  talkin* 
tonight.  I'll  do  it  when  it'll  do  me  more  good,"  he  said,  but 
at  his  own  words,  brave  though  they  sounded,  his  heart 
sank  and  a  rage  boiled  up  in  him. 

"  Then  I'm  afraid  it's  jail  for  you,  son,"  Riley  said.  "  I 
can  — " 

"  Jail  ?  " 

Jane  Hunter  had  stepped  into  the  bunk  house.     It  was 


142  THE  LAST  STRAW 

the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  there  and  that  was  reason 
enough  to  rivet  attention  on  her ;  but  now  she  came  under 
circumstances  which  were  stressed,  her  face  was  white, 
Hps  parted,  eyes  wide  with  a  child-Hke  wonder  and  as  she 
paused  on  the  threshold,  one  hand  against  the  casing,  dread 
was  in  every  Hne  of  her  figure. 

"  Jail?  "  she  repeated  in  a  strained  voice.     *'  And  why?  " 

The  silence  was  oppressive  and  for  a  breath  no  one  moved 
or  spoke.  Beck  had  not  turned  to  face  her ;  his  eyes  never 
left  Hepburn's  face  and  it  was  he  who  broke  the  suspense 
with  one  word,  addressed  to  the  foreman. 

-Well?"—   a  challenge. 

Hepburn  moved  slowly  toward  the  girl. 

"  There's  been  a  little  trouble,  Miss  Hunter,"  with  an  at- 
tempt at  a  laugh,  which  resulted  dismally. 

"  Trouble  ?  " —  with  rising  inflection. 

She  took  a  step  forward,  looking  about  at  the  serious 
faces.  She  looked  back  at  Hepburn;  then  at  Beck.  Her 
eyes  clung  to  him  a  moment,  then  swept  the  circle  again. 

"  Trouble  ?     About  what  ?     Who  is  in  trouble  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you  with  it,"  her  foreman  said, 
his  assurance  coming  back,  for  Beck  had  ceased  looking 
at  him.  "It's  a  nasty  mess;  I  don't  like  it.  None  of  us 
like  it.  Even  if  he  is  inclined  to  be  a  little  hot-headed, 
we  all  thought  better  of  Tom  — " 

"Tom?" 

Slowly  she  turned  to  face  Beck. 

"  Yes.  Tom.  We're.  .  .  .  We're  sorry,  ma'am,"  Dad 
stammered ;  then  recovered  and  with  an  effort  to  belittle 
the  situation  by  his  manner  proceeded :  "  Somebody  did  a 
small  amount  of  shootin'  at  me  this  afternoon.  Webb, 
here,  an'  I  was  at  the  head  of  Twenty-Mile  and  somebody 
fired  three  times  at  me.  Tom  come  in  tonight  with  three 
empty  shells  in  his  gun.  He  .  .  .  He  didn't  explain  well 
enough  to  suit  us  because  all  he  could  say  was  that  he  fired 
at  a  coyote  comin'  down  the  road,  but  — " 

"And  you're  going  to  take  him  to  jail?" 


THE  FHAME-UP  143 

Her  hand  had  gone  slowly  to  her  throat,  fingers  clamp- 
ing on  the  gold  locket  as  if  for  support.  Her  eyes  had  be- 
come very  dark. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  that's  about  all  we  can  do :  turn  him  over 
to  the  sheriff,"  Hepburn  said. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  a  second  interval  of  tense  silence 
prevailed  and  then  Jane,  putting  one  arm  across  her  eyes, 
began  to  laugh.  The  laugh  started  low  in  her  throat  and 
rippled  upward  until  it  was  full  and  as  clear  as  the  ringing 
of  a  glass  gong.  She  swayed  back  against  the  wall  and 
pressed  her  extended  palms  hard  against  the  tough  logs.  .  .  . 

"  On  that  evidence  ? "  she  cried.  '*  On  such  evidence 
you  would  charge  a  man  with  attempted  murder  and  turn 
him  over  to  the  law?  Because  there  were  empty  shells  in 
his   revolver? 

"  Why,  I  was  with  him  when  he  came  down  the  road 
and  he  did  shoot  at  a  coyote  .  .  .  three  times  ...  I  heard 
it;  I  saw  it  ...  I  was  there." 

She  leaned  her  head  back  and  her  body  shook  with  silent, 
nervous  laughter. 

"  Praise  ye  the  Lord !  "  chanted  the  Reverend,  "  For  his 
ways  are  wonderous  and  strange  to  behold !  " 

A  babel  of  comments,  loud,  profane,  excited,  relieved, 
arose.  Hepburn  stood  as  if  struck  dumb,  mouth  agape  and 
then,  face  growing  dark  with  a  rush  of  blood  under  the 
bronzed  skin,  he  said : 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  didn't  see  a  soul !  " 

"  I  said  I  didn't  see  a  man,  you  pole-cat !  "  Beck  retorted 
and  his  eyes  danced.  Webb  sat  down  on  a  bunk  as  though 
suddenly  weakened.  Riley,  voice  husky,  took  Tom's  hand, 
shook  it  gravely. 

*'  Why  didn't  you  tell  us,  my  boy?  "  he  questioned. 

The  rest  stopped  to  hear  the  answer : 

'*  I  didn't  want  to  spill  my  case  before  this  .  .  .  this 
hombrc  showed  his  full  hand,"  he  lied. 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  other  who  had  lied  .  .  .  but 
Jane  Hunter  had  fled. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE   BIG   CHANCE 


OURS  later,  after  the  Reverend  had  offered  a  strong, 
verbose  prayer,  invoking  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty 
upon  those  who  plot  to  strike  from  cover,  after  the  bunk 
house  had  finally  become  quiet,  Beck  stole  out  into  the 
night. 

The  moon  rode  high,  flooding  the  creek  bottom  with  its 
cold,  blue-white  light  and  he  stood  bareheaded,  shirt  open 
at  the  chest,  staring  at  one  bright  star  which  stared  back 
from  the  edge  of  the  hills.  Far  off,  away  down  the  creek, 
a  coyote  yapped  and,  waiting,  cried  again  and  its  faint  echo 
reverberated  into  silence.  A  horse  in  the  corral  stomped  and 
blew  loudly.  .  .  . 

He  moved  on  down  toward  the  cottonwoods  and  reach- 
ing them  stood  in  their  shadows,  arms  at  his  sides,  shoulders 
slacked  as  if  weakened,  irresolute.  The  ranch  house  was 
dark,  its  shingles  smeared  with  a  sheen  of  silver  by  the 
moon,  the  veranda  in  deep  black. 

Tom  did  not  see  her  coming  until  she  was  halfway  across 
the  dooryard.  Then,  rather  heavily,  he  climbed  the  wire 
fence  and  met  her. 

Without  words  of  greeting  Jane  put  out  her  hands  and 
he  took  them  both,  holding  them  between  his,  looking  down 
into  her  face  silently.  Her  eyes  were  dry,  but  there  had 
been  tears  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  lips,  as  she  looked  into 
his  smouldering  eyes,  trembled. 

"  What  were  they  trying  to  do  to  you  ?  "  she  whispered. 

*'  They  were  trying  to  send  me  to  jail  for  shooting  at  a 
man."  he  answered.     "  W^hy  did  you  lie  for  me?'' 

"  Oh,  you  were  in  trouble !  I  didn't  know.  I  couldn't 
think.  ...  I  saw  it  all  so  clearly,  all  in  a  flash,  saw  that  all 

144 


THE  BIG  CHANCE  145 

you  needed  was  one  little  word  from  someone  else  to  make 
it  right  and  I  didn't  care  beyond  that.  It  was  the  only 
thing  that  mattered.  If  they  had  taken  you  away  I'd  have 
been  alone,  wholly  alone.  .  .  ." 

"  You  believed  me  when  I  told  'em  I  shot  at  a  coyote  ?  " 

"  Believe  ?  Believe  ?  I  didn't  think,  didn't  consider.  It 
made  no  difference  to  me  what  you  had  done.  The  only 
thing  I  wanted  to  do  was  to  set  you  free,  to  clear  you !  " 

"  You'd  lie  for  me,  even  if  you  thought  I'd  shot  to  kill 
a  man?"  he  insisted. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  you  had  — " 

"  You'd  take  a  chance  like  that  ?  Why  would  you, 
ma'am  ?  " 

For  a  long  moment  their  eyes,  half  seen  to  one  another 
in  those  shadows,  clung  almost  fiercely,  his  inquisitory,  hers 
changing  as  wave  followed  wave  of  emotion  through  her 
body.  She  had  never  seen  him  so  dominating,  and  he  had 
no  need  to  insist  again  that  she  answer.  She  let  her  head 
fall  back  with  a  half  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  did  it  because  it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do. 
...  I  did  it,  Tom,  because  I  — " 

He  straightened  sharply  and  cut  in: 

"  I  know,  ma'am ;  you  did  it  because  you  need  me  here, 
on  the  ranch." 

His  chest  swelled  with  a  great  breath  and  he  released  her 
hands,  stepping  back  and  putting  a  hand  slowly  to  his  head. 

For  an  instant  she  made  no  sound.  Then  she  laughed 
strangely. 

"  Because  I  need  you  here.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  it.  That 
was  why  I  lied  for  you."  She  spoke  with  nervous  rapidity, 
rather  breathlessly,  and  one  hand  went  again  to  that  locket, 
clutching  it  in  a  cold  clasp.  "  I  knew  it  was  not  like  you  to 
try  to  shoot  a  man  unfairly.  I  didn't  think  here  was  much 
chance  in  lying.  All  I  saw  was  their  taking  you  away  and 
leaving  me  here  alone  to  face  all  this,  without  anyone  I 
can  trust,  without  anyone  to  help  me.  That  was  why  I 
lied  to  them. 


146  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  You  promised  me  once  that  you  would  stay.  I  knew 
then  that  I  needed  you ;  every  hour  since  that  promise  was 
made  I've  had  a  greater  reaHzation  of  my  need  for  you 
until  it  .  .  .  it  .  .  ."  Her  breath  caught  in  a  sob  and  she 
pressed  knuckles  to  her  lips. 

Beck  stood  silently  watching  her,  a  cold  moisture  forming 
on  his  brow,  hands  clenched  as  if  he  were  holding  himself 
against  the  urge  of  some  great  impulse. 

''  I  felt  when  I  stepped  in  there  and  learned  what  it  all 
was,  that  the  last  thing  I  have  to  depend  on  was  slipping 
away  .  .  .  and  I  reached  out  and  grasped  you  like  I'd  grasp 
a  straw  in  a  sea.  It  ...  I  can't  tell  you," — her  voice 
trembled,  "  what  it  meant,  what  it  means  to  me.  .  .  ." 

Words,  words !  They  spilled  from  her  lips  with  a  rapid- 
ity that  approached  hysteria.  She  was  talking  without 
thought,  without  reason,  letting  her  voice  run  on  while  her 
consciousness,  divorced  entirely  from  it,  fell  into  chaos. 

**  Everything  seems  to  be  working  against  me  and  now, 
because  you  have  been  my  help,  my  strength,  they  are  trying 
to  take  you  away.  Oh,  I  need  all  the  help  there  is,  and 
that  is  you !  " —  with  a  stamp  of  the  foot  as  she  drove  tears 
back. 

"  There  are  influences  which  I  can't  see,  v/hich  I  can  only 
feel,  all  about  me,  within  me," —  beating  her  breast  — "  and 
outside." 

"  It  may  be  interestin'  to  you  to  know  that  I  didn't  shoot 
at  any  coyote." 

She  gasped  lightly  and  for  a  moment  did  not  speak. 

"  Then  you  did  shoot  at  Hepburn  ?  " —  in  a  whisper. 

"  No,  I  didn't.     I'd  never  shoot  from  cover." 

*'  I  knew  that,"  she  said  quickly,  knowing  that  by  her 
question  she  had  hurt  him. 

''  It  appears  that  I  ain't  very  welcome  with  your  foreman. 
It  was  a  frame-up,  a  good  way  to  get  rid  of  me.  They 
planted  that  evidence  in  my  gun  while  I  was  eating.  It  was 
one  of  those  influences  at  work,  the  kind  you've  only  felt. 
You  can  see  some  of  'em  now,  ma'am.  .  .  . 


THE  BIG  CHANCE  147 

"  It's  lucky  you  thought  to  lie,"  he  said,  with  a  weak 
laugh  that  was  unlike  him.  "  I  guess  you're  going  to  need 
all  vour  luck.  .  .  . 

*'  But  you  better  go  in  now.     It's  late  and  cold." 

He  wanted  her  to  be  away  from  him,  to  be  rid  of  her 
presence,  for  it  pulled  him,  drew  him,  and  he  fought  against 
it,  fought  against  the  strongest  impulse  that  has  been  born 
to  man,  fought  blindly,  his  old,  deeply  rooted  caution,  drag- 
ging him  back  .  .  .  dragging  him.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  in ;  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,"  she 
said.     ''  I  want  — " 

"  But  you  must  go.  Have  I  got  to  pick  you  up  an'  carry 
you  into  your  house,  ma'am?" 

"  I  want  you  to  take  this,"  she  went  on  where  he  had 
interrupted,  fumbling  at  the  catch  of  the  chain  which  held 
the  locket  against  her  throat.  "  Take  it/'  she  said,  holding 
it  swinging  toward  him,  spattered  with  moonlight.  "  It's 
brought  me  all  the  luck  I've  ever  had ;  it  will  help  you,  it 
w^ill  protect  you.  You  need  luck  as  much  as  I  do  .  .  .  and 
you  need  it  for  me.  Wear  it,  a  foolish  little  trinket  but 
it  means  .  .  .  oh,  more  than  you  can  know !  I'd  like  to 
think  of  you  as  wearing  it.  .  .  ." 

**  I  don't  think  I  need  that,  ma'am.     What's  in  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  that !  Don't  even  open  it,  please.  Just  take 
it  and  wear  it,  for  me." 

He  made  no  move  to  take  the  ornament,  just  stood  looking 
at  it  skeptically. 

"  Take  it  .  .  .  and  then  I  will  go  in,  without  being  car- 
ried." 

She  reached  up  to  place  the  chain  about  his  neck  with  her 
own  hands ;  her  unsteady  fingers,  fumbling  with  the  catch, 
slipped  and  her  cool,  bared  arms,  touched  his  flesh.  x\t  the 
contact  she  swayed  against  him. 

*'  Oh,  carry  me  in,"  she  pleaded  gently,  "  carry  me  in  .  .  . 
not  into  my  house,  but  into  your  life !  " 

All  the  caution,  all  the  reason  he  had  summoned  to  hold 
back  that  urge  was  swept  aside.     The  touch  of  her  skin 


148  THE  LAST  STRAW 

against  his  skin  sent  seething  blood  to  the  ends  of  his  limbs. 
It  did  not  need  her  plea  to  break  him  down;  the  touch 
accomplished  it,  and  fiercely,  roughly,  he  caught  her  to 
him. 

**  It's  all  been  a  lie,  another  lie,  all  this  youVe  said !  "  he 
cried  lowly.  "  You  didn't  lie  tonight  because  you  need  me ; 
you  lied  because  you  love  me,  ma'am !  You  love  me,  like  a 
good  woman  can  love,  and  I  love  you.  ...  I  love  you, 
ma'am,  like  I  never  thought  I  could  love.  It's  bigger  than 
I  am,  bigger  than  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  .  .  . 

"  From  that  first  night  you  talked  to  me  I've  been  afraid 
I  was  goin'  to  love  you.  That  was  why  I  planned  to  go 
away  because  I  didn't  want  to  take  a  chance  with  my  love. 
It's  the  only  sacred  thing  I've  ever  owned  and  I've  kept 
it  back,  savin'  it  for  the  time  when  I  could  turn  it  loose.  .  .  . 

"  When  you  told  me  you'd  made  up  your  mind  to  stay 
here,  that  you  wanted  to  do  something  that  was  real  and 
worth-while,  I  felt  that  I  couldn't  hold  it  back.  .  .  . 

"  But  I  didn't  know  you.  I  got  to  love  you  so  much  I 
was  afraid  of  you,  afraid  of  myself.  That  was  why  I  bul- 
lied you,  that  was  why  I  picked  on  you.  I  tried  to  drive 
you  away  from  me,  I  tried,  even,  to  keep  from  bein'  your 
friend,  but  somethin'  told  me  all  the  time  that  this  had  to 
come. 

"  I've  watched  you  grow  strong  and  big.  I've  hurt  you 
on  purpose.  I've  made  some  things  hard  for  you  to  do,  but 
you've  done  'em.  You're  like  a  man,  in  the  way  you  stand 
up  to  things  .  .  .  and  the  gentlest,  the  sweetest  woman  down 
in  your  heart !  " 

*'  Not  that!  "  she  pleaded.  "  Not  all  that.  I'm  not  what 
you  think,  I'm  only  what  you  can  make  me.  I'm  weak  and 
need  it.  I  want  to  be  carried  .  .  .  along  and  upward  by 
it!" 

Chin  drawn  in,  he  looked  down  into  her  face  as  she  lay 
in  his  arms,  her  breath  quick  and  fast  and  warm  on  his 
cheek.     He  could  feel  his  limbs  vibrate  as  his  pulse  leaped 


THE  BIG  CHANCE  149 

and  his  whole  body  trembled  as  he  read  the  look  in  her  eyes, 
revealed  by  the  moonlight. 

Up  on  the  hills  a  little  owl  hooted  and  again  the  coyote 
yapped.  A  vagrant  night  wind  touched  the  trees  above 
them  and  the  leaves  whispered  sleepily,  as  if  roused  by  a 
pleasant  dream.  The  murmur  of  the  creek  sounded  almost 
as  a  blessing.  None  of  these  they  heard.  They  were  lost  in 
a  vague,  limitless  world,  alone,  swayed  by  the  most  power- 
ful, the  most  beautiful  forces  in  life. 

"  You  lied  because  you  love  me,"  he  whispered. 

And  at  that  she  stirred  and  her  breath  slipped  out  in  a 
long  sob.  He  lowered  his  face  to  hers  as  scalding  tears 
brimmed  from  her  eyes.  He  felt  them  on  his  cheek, 
mingled  with  her  breath  and  he  felt  her  arms  tighten  about 
his  neck,  her  body  draw  closer  to  his. 

"  It  wasn't  any  chance !  "  he  whispered  fiercely.  "  It 
wasn't  any  chance,  and  I've  been  holdin'  back,  fighting  it  oft, 
denying  it  to  myself  for  weeks  .  .  .  afraid  to  risk  it,  afraid 
to  let  it  come  out  .  .  .  afraid  of  what  is  .yo.' '"' 

"  Isn't  it  a  chance  ?  "  she  asked  almost  in  a  gasp.  "  Isn't 
it?    Are  you  sure,  Tom?" 

"  As  sure  as  I  am  that  the  moon  is  up  there,  Jane." 

He  lowered  his  lips  to  hers  and  for  a  long  kiss  they 
clung. 

"  But  you  don't  know  —  you  don't  know !  "  she  cried, 
suddenly  struggling  to  be  free.  "  You  don't  know  me," 
pressing  her  palms  against  his  chest  as  he  held  her.  "  It's 
big,  it's  fine  ,  .  .  the  biggest,  the  finest  thing  that  has  ever 
come  into  my  life. 

"  Tom  !     What  if  it  should  be  a  chance?  " 

"  But,  Jane  it  can't  — " 

With  a  faint  little  cry,  almost  as  though  she  were  hurt, 
she  broke  from  him  and  fled  toward  the  house  through  the 
moonlight. 

He  stood  alone,  the  feel  of  her  lips  still  on  his,  heart 
leaping,  mind  swirling.  And,  looking  down,  he  saw  that  in 
his  hand  he  held  the  little  gold  locket. 


CHAPTER  XV 
war! 

SO,  for  Jane  and  Tom,  at  least,  Hepburn  came  into  the 
open. 

And  for  Hepburn,  these  two  displayed  their  hands. 

Of  greater  consequence.  Beck's  reserve,  his  caution  was 
swept  away.     He  had  taken  his  big  chance  I 

*'  You're  all  there  is  to  me,"  he  told  Jane  the  following 
morning  with  a  desperation  in  his  eyes  and  a  seriousness 
in  his  voice  that  made  her  search  his  face  with  alarm.  *'  I 
fought  against  my  love  for  you  but  it  wasn't  any  use.  You 
made  me  love  you.  You'll  make  me  keep  lovin'  you,  won't 
you,  Jane  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so !  You  don't  know  how  much  I  hope  so !  " 
she  assured  him  as  her  arms  clasped  his  neck  closely.  *'  It 
frightens  me,  having  this  responsibility.  It's  the  greatest 
I've  ever  had  and  I'm  weak,  Tom,  a  weak  woman !  " 

"  No,  strong !  "  he  declared  and  stopped  her  further  pro- 
test with  kisses. 

Dad  Hepburn,  of  course,  could  not  stay  on  under  the 
circumstances. 

"  There's  an  advantage  of  having  a  reptile  in  sight  if 
you've  got  to  have  one  in  the  country,"  Beck  told  Jane  as 
they  discussed  the  matter,  '*  but  he  won't  stay.  He's  got  an 
excuse  to  back  out  gracefully  now  and  we  haven't  any  ex- 
cuse to  keep  him  on." 

"  And  will  you  be  my  foreman  ?  "  she  asked. 

**  If  you'll  trust  me  that  far,"  he  replied  with  the  laugh  in 
his  eyes  again. 

Hepburn  departed  that  day,  telling  Jane  that  he  would 
like  to  stay  but  that  he  did  not  feel  like  risking  his  life  for 
the  sake  of  a  job,  to  which  she  made  no  reply  other  than 

150 


WAR  I  151 

writing  his  check.  This  nettled  him ;  he  did  not  meet  her 
gaze  because,  though  they  both  had  Hed,  her  guilt  was  white 
while  his  was  smirched  with  treachery. 

His  farewell  to  Beck  was  not  open  but  his  successor  read 
in  it  an  ominous  quality. 

"  I  wish  you  luck  on  your  job,  Beck,"  he  said  as  he 
mounted,  ready  to  ride  away.     "  Lots  of  luck." 

"  Mostly  bad  luck,  Hepburn  ?  "  Tom  taunted  and  the  flush 
that  whipped  into  the  face  of  the  older  man  was  not  that  of 
humiliation. 

He  reined  his  horse  away  with  a  growl  and  did  not  look 
back. 

If  the  little  gold  locket  which  Tom  wore  about  his  neck 
brought  luck,  it  supplied  a  dire  need.  He  had  two  deter- 
mined personal  enemies  in  the  country,  Webb  and  Hepburn, 
and  as  foreman  of  the  H  C  he  had  many  others,  identities 
not  fully  established. 

There  was  Cole  and  the  Mexicans  he  had  hired  to  build 
the  fence  and  clear  his  land.  There  was  the  usual  gathering 
of  riff-raff  at  Webb's.  And  there  was  Sam  McKee,  the 
coward,  who  was  not  reckoned  as  a  menace  by  Beck  and 
who,  in  later  days,  was  to  figure  so  largely ! 

Another  piece  of  news  the  Reverend  brought : 

"  They're  talkin'  about  you  in  town,  brother.  They're 
saying  that  now  some  of  this  thieving  will  stop.  They're 
looking  to  you  to  clean  up  the  country." 

^'  Ain't  that  a  lot  of  responsibility  to  put  on  one  peaceful 
citizen?"  Beck  asked,  but  though  he  jested  over  the  fact 
he  did  not  fail  to  appreciate  its  significance. 

"  Be  cautious.     These  men  are  without  scruple,  brother." 

"  And  so  am  I  .  .  .  but  I  got  lots  of  luck,  Reverend !  " 
was  his  parting. 

He  needed  his  luck. 

Riding  alone,  under  a  rim  rock,  with  the  country  falling 
away  to  the  westward,  he  speculated  on  his  luck  and  on  the 
talisman  Jane  had  given  him.  He  drew  the  locket  from 
his  shirt  front  and  held  it  on  his  big  palm  eyeing  the  thing, 


152  THE  LAST  STRAW 

wondering  what  it  contained  that  Jane  had  wanted  to  con- 
ceal from  him. 

**  I've  got  a  half  grown  notfon  to  open  it,"  he  muttered 
and  stopped  his  horse  shortly. 

And  he  might  have  sprung  the  lid  had  not  a  zipping 
and  a  dull,  dead  spatter  on  the  rock  just  ahead  caught  his 
attention.  He  looked  up  sharply,  saw  the  stain  of  metal 
against  the  ledge  and  saw  in  the  sunlight  a  fragment  of  the 
bullet  that  had  shattered  itself  there,  that  would  have  drilled 
him  had  his  horse  taken  the  next  step. 

Whoever  fired  had  calculated  on  that  next  step  because 
he  was  at  such  a  distance  that  no  report  of  a  rifle  reached 
him. 

Beck  turned  his  horse  and  raced  to  cover  and  lay  for  an 
hour  scanning  the  country,  but  his  assailant  did  not  ap- 
pear. 

When  Tom  rode  away  he  smiled  grimly  to  himself  and 
said  to  the  roan: 

**  We  won't  look  in  it  now.  Stoppin'  to  consider  saved 
our  skin  that  time;  maybe  we'll  need  that  luck  again  .  .  . 
and  worse." 

Another  time,  the  same  week,  he  threw  his  bed  on  a 
pack  horse  and  started  a  two-day  ride  to  the  south-east  for, 
as  foreman,  he  gave  close  heed  to  the  detail  of  his  work. 

At  sundown  he  made  camp  and  while  his  cofifee  boiled 
stripped  himself  and  bathed  luxuriously  in  a  waterhole. 

He  lay  looking  upward  at  the  stars  that  night  thinking 
more  of  Jane  Hunter  than  her  property,  thrilling  at  memory 
of  her  hair  and  eyes  and  lips,  telling  himself  that  conditions 
were  reversed  now,  and  that  instead  of  fighting  her  off,  evad- 
ing her  charms,  he  was  consumed  with  an  eagerness  for 
them. 

Drowsiness  came  and,  turning  on  his  side,  he  reached  a 
hand  for  the  locket  to  hold  it  fast  while  he  slept.  It  was 
not  about  his  neck.  He  remembered  that  he  had  left  it 
on  a  rock  where  he  had  undressed  for  his  bath  and,  slipping 


WAR !  1 53 

out  of  his  blankets,  turning  them  back  that  the  night  chill 
might  not  dampen  his  bed,  he  picked  his  way  carefully  to 
the  place  and  groped  for  the  trinket. 

His  fingers  had  just  touched  the  gold  disc  when  the 
quiet  of  the  night  was  punctured  by  a  shot  .  .  .  then  four 
more  in  quick  succession. 

He  squatted  low,  holding  his  breath.  He  heard  booted 
feet  running  over  rocks,  heard  a  man  speak  gruffly  to  a 
horse  and,  in  a  moment,  heard  galloping  hoofs  carrying  a 
rider  away.  He  waited  a  half  hour,  then  stole  back  to  his 
bed.     The  tarp  and  blankets  were  drilled  by  five  bullet  holes. 

"  Maybe  I'm  superstitious,"  he  muttered,  fastening  the 
gold  chain  about  his  neck,  "  but  this  thing,  or  whatever  is  in 
it,  has  saved  my  hide  twice  in  one  week." 

The  man  who  had  fired  into  his  blankets  had  trailed  him 
deliberately,  had  waited  until  satisfied  that  he  was  asleep 
and  had  stolen  up  to  murder  him  without  offering  a  fighting 
chance. 

"  Hepburn  has  gone  into  partnership  with  Webb,"  Jane 
told  him  on  his  return  to  the  ranch.  "  The  Reverend 
brought  in  that  word.     What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

'*  Not  much.  Without  my  help  it  makes  about  the  finest 
couple  of  snakes  that  could  be  brought  together !  "  Tom 
muttered. 

"  And  somebody  tampered  with  the  ditch  in  the  upper 
field.  Curtis  and  the  men  started  the  water  down  late  in 
the  afternoon.  They  left  their  tools  there  and  the  ditch  bank 
was  broken.  They  tell  me  it  surely  was  shoveled  out.  The 
water  is  low  and  losing  it  hurt." 

*'  That  looks  quite  like  war,"  he  told  her. 

War  it  was.  That  night  the  men  in  the  bunk  house  were 
awakened  by  a  bright  glare  and  looking  out  Beck  saw  that 
four  stacks  of  hay,  totaling  more  than  a  hundred  tons  of 
feed  left  from  the  winter,  were  in  a  blaze.  While  the  others 
hastily  dressed  and  ran  toward  the  stack  yard  in  the  futile 


154  THE  LAST  STRAW 

hope  that  some  portion  might  be  saved,  the  foreman  stayed 
behind  .  .  .  Hstening.  From  far  up  the  road  he  heard  the 
faint,  quick  rattle  of  a  running  horse. 

In  the  morning  a  note  was  found  stuck  in  the  latch  of 
the  big  gate.  It  was  addressed  to  Jane  Hunter  and,  in  a 
rude  scrawl,  had  been  written : 

"  The  longer  you  stay  the  more  you  will  lose." 

She  showed  it  to  Beck  and  after  he  had  read  and  re- 
read and  turned  the  single  sheet  of  paper  over  in  his  hands 
he  looked  up  to  see  her  eyes  tear  filled. 

''  It  isn't  worth  it !  "  she  cried  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot. 
"  This  is  only  the  start.  Do  you  know  what  they  are 
saying  in  town?  The  word  has  been  passed  that  first  you 
are  to  be  driven  out  and  that  then  I  will  have  to  go.  People 
are  saying  that  the  others  are  too  many  and  too  ruthless  for 
you,  that  they  are  bound  to  drive  us  away.  It  is  being  said 
that  you  are  too  straight  to  win  a  crooked  fight! 

"  I  could  risk  losing  the  things  I  own,  my  property,  but 
I  wouldn't  risk  you,  Tom  dear  ...  I  wouldn't  do  that !  " 

"  And  there's  somethin'  else  you  wouldn't  do,"  he  said 
lowly,  stroking  her  forehead.  "  You  wouldn't  let  'em  , 
drive  you  out.  You  didn't  start  that  way.  You  come  out 
here  to  beat  the  game  and  if  you  quit  cold  you  wouldn't 
think  much  of  yourself,  would  you?  We  didn't  want 
trouble,  but  we've  got  to  go  and  meet  it !  " 

"  But  you !  "  she  moaned,  putting  her  arms  about  his  big 
shoulders.     "  What  of  you  ?  " 

*'  Don't  worry  about  me  when  the  only  danger  is  from 
men  that  won't  come  into  the  open !  Maybe  I'm  a  bigger 
crook  than  I'm  given  credit  for.  Besides,  you've  given  me 
lots  of  luck.  ... 

*'  I  don't  know  what's  in  this  thing," —  holding  out  the 
locket  — "  but  I've  got  a  lot  of  faith  in  it  .  .  .  and  in  you, 
Jane !  " 

Where,  before  he  gave  his  love  recognition,  he  had  taken 
pains  to  bring  Jane  into  contact  with  adversities,  he  now  was 
impelled   to   shield   her    from    all   that   he   could.     In   the 


WAR!  155 

natural  role  of  her  protector  he  did  everything  possible 
to  allay  her  apprehension.  He  could  not  blind  her  to  the 
broad  situation  but  he  could  and  did  withold  the  seriousness 
of  some  of  its  detail,  even  keeping  some  things  that  tran- 
spired, such  as  the  attempts  on  his  life,  to  himself. 

But  he  did  worry  about  the  enemy  that  worked  from 
cover,  that  shot  at  sleeping  men,  that  broke  ditches  and 
burned  property  and  sent  unsigned  threats  to  women.  That 
made  his  fight  a  battle  in  the  darkness  and  his  strength  v/as 
the  strength  of  light,  of  frankness,  of  honesty.  His  mind 
was  not  adapted  to  scheming  and  skulking. 

To  drive  his  foe  into  the  open  was  his  first  objective  and 
that  night  he  set  out. 

"  You  call  it  recognizing  a  state  of  war,  I  believe,''  he 
told  Jane  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  when  she  queried  his 
going. 

"  Tom !     You're  not  going  — " 

"  Not  going  to  take  a  chance,"  he  said  soberly.  "  It's 
just  a  diplomatic  mission,  you  might  say." 

He  put  her  ofif  and  rode  out  of  the  ranch  gate.  It  was 
dark  and  when  he  had  progressed  a  mile  he  halted  his  horse, 
dropped  off,  loosened  the  cinch  so  the  leather  would  not 
creak  when  the  animal  breathed,  and  stood  listening.  Aside 
from  the  natural  noises  of  the  night,  the  world  was  with- 
out sound. 

He  drew  his  gun  from  its  holster  and  twirled  the  cylinder. 
Usually  he  carried  the  trigger  over  an  empty  chamber;  to- 
night it  was  filled.     And  inside  his  shirt  was  another  gun. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE    WARNING 


THE  fire  in  Webb's  cook  stove  was  not  all  that  fur- 
nished warmth  to  the  three  men  sitting  about  it  that 
night,  for  they  drank  frequently  from  the  bottle  which, 
when  not  passing  from  hand  to  hand,  was  nestled  on  Dick 
Hilton's  lap,  his  hands  caressing  its  smooth  surface  lovingly 
.  .  .  save  the  word ! 

Sam  McKee  and  three  other  men  played  solo  on  the 
table,  noisily  and  quarrelsomely  after  the  manner  of  their 
kind.  Engrossed  in  the  game  they  gave  little  heed  to  the 
talk  of  the  others.  It  was  shop  talk,  of  plots  and  schemes, 
of  danger  and  distrust. 

Webb's  little  button  eyes  were  even  more  ugly  than 
usual,  Hilton's  mouth  drawn  in  lines  that  were  even  more 
cruel,  but  Hepburn,  under  influence  of  the  liquor,  only 
became  more  paternal,  more  deliberate  as  the  evening  and 
the  drinking  went  on.  He  was  not  nettled  by  Webb's  dis- 
favor, and  even  smiled  on  the  rancher  indulgently  as  he 
listened  to  the  querulous  plaint. 

"If  you'd  only  used  yer  head  an'  stayed  there,"  Webb 
went  on,  "  then  we'd  hev  had  it  all  easy-like.  You  could 
've  stole  her  blind  an'  she'd  never  knew.  Then  you  had 
to  git  on  the  peck  about  him!''     He  sniffed  in  disgust. 

"  Now,  Webb,  you're  too  harsh  in  what  you  say,"  the 
other  replied  blandly.  "  I  done  all  I  could  but  Beck  wouldn't 
be  blinded!  He's  got  second  sight  or  somethin'," — with 
a  degree  of  heat. 

"  We  had  him  scotched  all  right,  but  we  hadn't  figured 
on  the  girl.     Nobody'd  thought  she  was  sweet  on  him !  " 

Hilton  stirred  uneasily  and  the  color  in  his  face  deep- 

156 


THE  WARNING  137 

ened.     He  looked  at  Hepburn  with  an  ugly  light  in  his  eyes. 

''  That  upset  everything,"  Hepburn  went  on.  "  There 
wasn't  no  use  tryin'  to  play  a  quiet  game  after  that.  They 
both  know  we  want  to  get  rid  of  'em  worst  way  and  now 
we've  got  to  keep  under  cover  an'  use  our  heads  harder'n 
ever." 

"  There's  too  many  in  it,"  Webb  whined.  "  I  tell  you 
the's  too  many  in  it!  If  you'd  let  me  alone,  just  me  an' 
the  boys,  I'd  felt  safer.  But  now  there's  Cole  an'  his 
daughter  an'  .  .  .  half  the  country !  " 

He  flashed  an  indecisive  glance  at  Hilton  who  studied 
the  bottle,  frowning. 

**  Lots  in  it,"  Hepburn  said  heavily,  ''  but  they've  got  to 
hang  together  or  .  .  ." 

"  Separately,"  added  Dick  cynically. 

Hepburn  nodded  and  Webb  shifted  and  jerked  his  head 
petulantly. 

"  But  there's  nothin'  to  fret  about,"  Dad  went  on.  "  None 
of  us  will  be  a  leak.  Cole  can't  because  we  could  put  him 
behind  bars  by  just  lettin'  on  that  he'd  used  his  homestead 
rights  under  another  name  an'  had  no  right  on  this  place, 
let  alone  other  things. 

"  We  can  use  his  brand,  which  is  why  I  brought  him  in 
here.  I've  spread  the  news  that  he's  bought  cows  of  you 
an'  between  workin'  over  the  H  C  and  ventin'  your  marks 
we'll  have  a  herd  here  in  a  couple  of  seasons  that'll  make 
us  rich ! 

'*  An'  we'll  have  range  for  'em,  too.  She  won't  stand 
up  under  a  range  war ! " 

"  But  Beck  will,"  Webb  protested. 

**  He  will  if  you  don't  get  rid  of  him !  "  with  slow  anger 
behind  the  words  and  a  cunning  glitter  in  his  eyes.  '*  I 
don't  see  how  in  hell  you  missed  him.  You  must  've  been 
drunk !  " 

"  He  wasn't  in  his  bed,  I  tell  you.  He  couldn't  've 
been ! " 

"  Well,  if  /  had  against  him  what  you  got,  I'd  get  him," 


158  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Hepburn  stated  emphatically,  well  satisfied,  and  showing 
it,  that  this  was  a  masterly  stroke.  "  He  made  you  laughed 
at  by  the  whole  country." 

"  You  wait,"  Webb  snarled.     "  My  time's  comin' !  " 

"  Deliberately,  I'd  say,"  Hilton  put  in  ironically. 

"  Oh,  you're  always  kickin' !  "  Webb  protested.  "  I  don't 
see  why  you  stay  on  if  things  don't  satisfy  you.  You've 
got  to  have  sheets  on  your  bed,  you've  got  to  have  grub 
cooked  different,  you've  got  to  sleep  late  an'  you've  got  to 
have  hot  water  to  wash  and  shave  always  when  th'  kettle's 
cold !  You've  got  into  this  deal  an'  you'd  like  to  run  it  your 
way. 

"  What  the  hell  do  you  stay  on  for?  " 

Hepburn  looked  at  Hilton's  face  as  though  he,  too,  won- 
dered just  why  he  stayed  on,  but,  pursuing  his  usual  tactics, 
he  said : 

"  Why,  if  Mr.  Hilton  can  pay  for  it,  why  can't  he  have 
his  way?  He  has  the  money.  He's  willing  to  spend  it. 
I'm  sure  his  willingness  to  stake  Cole  to  fence  and  hired 
help  means  a  lot  to  all  of  us,  Webb.  That's  goin'  to  drive 
her  out  of  the  Hole  entire  this  summer. 

"  The  booze  has  made  you  irritable,  Webb." 

Webb  sat  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  chin  in  his  hands  and 
grumbled : 

**  I  have  to  stand  a  lot,  I  do.  Both  of  you  eggin'  me  on 
all  the  time,  all  the  time!  I  do  th'  best  I  can,  but  nothin's 
ever  satisfactory.     Nobody  ever  does   anything   for   me !  " 

"  Sho,  Webb,  that  ain't  so.  Didn't  Mr.  Hilton  give  you 
a  brand  new  automatic  ?  Ain't  I  been  reasonable  in  turnin' 
a  chance  to  make  good  your  way  ?  " 

The  other  fidgeted,  then  looked  up  at  Hilton. 

"  I  don't  see  why  yoiive  got  such  an  interest  in  this  for, 
anyhow.  Course,  it's  none  of  my  business,  but  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  always  Q.gg  me  on  about  Beck." 

"  I  am  concerned  to  see  the  T  H  O  prosper,"  said  Hil- 
ton mockingly.  "That  is  why  I  bought  fence;  that  is  why 
I  want  your  friend,  the  H  C  foreman,  out  of  the  way." 


THE  WARNING  159 

He  rose,  placed  the  bottle  on  the  table  and  stepped  out 
of  the  house.  They  heard  him  walk  across  the  dooryard 
and  into  the  stable. 

"You  s'pose  he's  goin'  to  meet  her  again  tonight?" 
Webb  growled. 

"  Likely.  ,  .  .  It's  likely." 

**  I  wish  th'  hell  he'd  clear  out.  I  don't  see  what  you 
wanted  to  take  him  in  for !  " 

Hepburn  chuckled. 

''How  could  you  keep  him  out?  The  girl,  she  knows 
everything,  an'  what  she  knows  he  knows.  His  money's 
valuable  to  us  an'  besides  .  .  .  it'll  keep  her  quiet  if  we 
ever  do  get  out  on  a  limb." 

Webb  looked  up  in  query. 

"  You're  right  when  you  say  there's  too  many  in  it, 
Webb,  but  there's  just  one  too  many.  That's  the  girl !  I 
can't  figure  her  out;  I  can't  trust  her.  If  we  was  to  try 
to  pass  the  buck  to  Cole,  in  a  pinch,  she'd  raise  the  deuce. 
.  .  .  That  is,  she  would  if  it  wasn't  for  Hilton.'' 

"How's  that?" 

"If  she  turned  on  the  rest  of  us,  it'd  catch  Hilton  an'  she's 
gone  on  him.  Never  saw  a  girl  who  was  so  loyal  to  her 
father  but  when  you  bring  in  another  man  that  loyalty  won't 
stand  up  in  a  pinch;  not  if  it's  a  choice  between  a  father 
and  a  lover." 

"  But  he  ain't  on  the  level  with  her !  " 

"  Makes  no  difference.  She's  took  to  him  like  girls  of 
her  sort  do.  He  can  handle  her  an'  she's  the  only  one  that 
knows  our  side  who'll  ever  need  any  handlin'.  He  was 
right  when  he  said  the  rest  of  us'd  have  to  hang  together, 
or  separately." 

Outside  a  horseman  rode  quietly  to  the  gate  and  sat 
looking  through  the  open  doorway  and  the  one  window  of 
the  room.  He  counted  the  men  carefully;  counted  again, 
then  rode  back  the  way  he  had  come  and  stopped  and  waited. 

"But  what  about  the  other  girl  .  .  .  Hunter?"  Webb 
asked  after  a  silent  interval.     "  Hilton  zvas  sweet  on  her." 


i6o  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Hepburn's  eyes  kindled. 

"  His  jealousy  is  another  asset.  Hilton  wanted  her  an' 
couldn't  get  her,  an'  he  knows  the  reason  now :  It's  Beck. 
You  think  he's  been  practicin'  with  a  rifle  and  pistol  for 
the  fun  of  it  ?  Not  on  your  life !  "  Leaning  closer :  ^'  The 
time  may  come,  Webb,  when  Hilton'U  clear  Beck  out  of 
our  way.  .  .  .  That'd  be  easier.  I  don't  want  to  try  it  in 
the  open;  I  don't  guess  you  do.  He's  got  a  crimp  in  all 
the  boys.  Look  at  Sam,  for  instance.  He's  itchin'  to  kill 
Beck  but  he  ain't  got  the  sand  I  " 

"If  she  ever  found  out  he  wasn't  on  the  level  with  her," 
—  Webb's  mind  going  back  to  Bobby  Cole  — *'  she'd  claw 
him  up  fearful." 

"  Yup.  But  she's  in  love  an'  love  plays  hell  with  men  and 
women,  Webb." 

The  other  started  to  reply,  then  sat  rigid,  listening. 

A  horse  came  up  the  road  at  a  slow  trot  and  halted  by 
the  gpcte.  A  saddle  creaked,  then  the  bars  complained  as 
the  were  lowered.  A  man  was  whistling  lightly  as  he 
rode  toward  the  house  and  dismounted,  leaving  his  horse 
standing. 

"  Must  be  one  of  the  boys,"  he  said,  and  settled  back. 
None  who  had  other  than  friendly  business  there  would 
come  uncautious. 

*'  I  was  going  to  say,"  went  on  Hepburn,  "  that  they'll  be 
fooled  about  that  Hole  range.  It's  time  for  the  cattle  to 
start  comin'  in  from  the  desert.  They'll  get  up  there  and 
the  creek'U  be  an  ash  bed  with  a  couple  more  days  of  this 
sun.  They  can't  take  'em  back  through  the  Gap  without  a 
big  loss  and  if  they  leave  'em  in  the  Hole  without  water  long 
enough  they  can't  get  'em  up  the  trail  without  loss  so — " 

"If  you'll  all  rise  up  and  put  up  your  hands  we  won't  have 
any  trouble  .  .  .  tonight ! " 

Hepburn  looked  slowly  over  his  shoulder,  slightly  be- 
wildered. Webb,  who  had  been  stooped  forward,  raised 
his  eyes  and  breath  slipped  through  his  lips  in  a  long  hiss. 
Sam  McKee,  who  had  reached  out  to  take  a  trick,  let  his  ace 


THE  V7ARNING  161 

drop  from  limp  fingers.  The  other  three  started  up  like 
guilty  men  sharply  accused  of  their  crime. 

Tom  Beck,  a  revolver  in  each  hand,  stood  framed  in  the 
doorway,  bending  forward  from  the  hips,  hat  back,  eyes 
burning.  His  voice  had  been  level  and  natural,  with  some- 
thing akin  to  a  laugh  in  it,  but  when  he  spoke  again  it  was 
a  rasp: 

"  Get  up  on  your  rattles,  you  snakes,  and  put  up  your 
hands ! " 

With  an  oath  Hepburn  sprang  to  his  feet,  faced  about 
and  raised  his  arms.  Webb  followed,  with  jerky  move- 
ments, his  face  pallid  with  fear.  The  four  card  players  got 
from  their  chairs.  As  McKee's  hands  went  slowly  above  his 
head  they  trembled  like  aspen  branches  in  a  breeze. 

For  a  long  moment  there  was  no  sound,  save  Hepburn's 
heavy  breathing.  Then  Tom  Beck  let  a  curious  smile  run 
across  his  lips. 

"  This  is  a  hell  of  a  way  to  come  to  talk  business/'  he  com- 
mented. "  I  don't  like  it  .  .  .  but  little  more  than  you  seem 
to.  It's  the  safest  way  for  me.  That's  why  I'm  here,  to 
consider  my  safety." 

He  let  his  gaze  run  from  face  to  face.  Webb's  eyes  met 
his  squarely,  a  baleful  challenge  in  them,  but  as  he  glared 
at  Hepburn,  Hepburn's  gaze  wavered,  flicking  back  twice, 
only  to  drop  again.  McKee  whimpered  under  his  breath. 
The  other  three  stared  back  sullenly,  alert  for  an  opening. 

Beck  moved  into  the  room  just  one  step. 

"  I  don't  know  who  it  is  that's  been  tryin'  to  kill  me, 
but  it  wouldn't  take  many  guesses,"  he  said.  Again  his  eyes 
ran  from  face  to  face.  "  It  might  be  you,  Hepburn,  and  it 
might  be  you,  Webb.  It's  like  both  of  you,  to  shoot  from 
cover  .  .  .  like  you  accused  me  of  shootin'.  It  might  be 
McKee,  but  even  that  takes  more  nerve  than  he's  got.  I 
wouldn't  put  it  past  any  of  the  rest  of  you. 

"  I  didn't  come  here  to  try  to  find  out.  I  got  more  im- 
portant things  to  do  than  to  identify  the  party  right  now. 

*'  I  rode  over  this  evening  to  make  a  little  call  an'  to  drop 


i62  THE  LAST  STRAW 

the  word  that  if  I  see  any  of  this  outfit  anywhere  near  the 
H  C  ranch  or  on  its  range  there's  goin'  to  be  shootin' 
a-plenty  and  that  if  you  want  to  be  the  first  to  shoot,  you 
want  to  draw  almighty  quick!  If  any  of  you  see  one  of 
my  men  anywhere,  you  hit  the  breeze.  It's  the  best  way  out 
of  trouble. 

"  Hepburn,  you  an'  Webb  tried  to  frame  me  once. 
That's  suf^cient  cause.  I'd  kill  you  like  I'd  kill  a  ...  a 
scorpion.  McKee  don't  count.  You  other  three  probably 
are  in  on  the  threat  to  drive  me  out  of  the  country.  Just 
workin'  here  puts  you  beyond  the  law  that  protects  honest 
men. 

"  Now  there's  a  little  matter  of  trouble  that's  happened 
around  the  H  C.  That's  going  to  stop  from  now  on.  We've 
got  lots  of  men  over  there  who  are  handy  with  their  artil- 
lery. They're  pretty  well  worked  up.  There  won't  be  a 
finger  lifted  to  prevent  you  workin'  within  your  rights,  but 
the  first  crooked  move  one  of  you  makes  .  .  .  there'll  be 
a  new  table  boarder  in  th'  devil's  kitchen. 

"  That's  all  I  come  to  say.  That's  all  the  conversation 
that'll  be  necessary  between  us  from  now  on.  The  H  C 
is  goin'  to  keep  doing  business,  and  it's  present  owner  is  go- 
ing to  stay  on  the  job.  As  for  me  .  .  .  it's  been  talked 
around  that  I  was  to  be  drove  out  an'  all  I've  got  to  say  is, 
come  on  and  do  your  driving !  " 

His  mouth  set  with  an  expression  of  finality  and  his  eyes 
bored  into  theirs.  He  was  through,  but  even  as  he  straight- 
ened preparatory  to  backing  through  the  doorway  into  the 
night  a  flicker  of  cunning  crossed  Dad  Hepburn's  face,  set 
there  by  a  faint,  faint  creaking  of  the  stable  door,  unheard 
by  Beck  whose  own  voice  had  been  in  his  ears. 

"  Don't  you  think  you're  a  little  quick  in  passin'  judg- 
ment, Tom?"  he  asked. 

Beck  laughed  shortly. 

"  Looking  for  me  to  handle  you  with  gloves.  Dad  ?  After 
you  tried  to  frame  me?  After  you — "  He  cherked  him- 
self  shortly  as  he   was   about  to  accuse   Hepburn  of   one 


THE  WARNING  163 

specific  art  of  treachery  against  the  H.  C.  He  might  need 
that  later.     "  After  you've  tried  to  get  me? 

"  No,  somebody  shot  at  my  bed  one  night;  somebody  shot 
at  me  while  I  was  riding  open  country  one  day."  At  that 
a  glint  of  astonishment  showed  in  Webb's  face.  "  There's 
just  one  way  to  handle  men  like  that,  and  I'm  doin'  it  now, 
to-night.     I'm  — " 

The  crash  of  a  shot  from  behind,  the  splintering  of  the 
door  panel  at  his  shoulder,  cut  him  short.  Webb  jumped  as 
though  the  bullet  had  been  sent  at  him.  Hepburn's  face 
contorted  into  a  grimace  of  elation. 

With  a  catch  of  his  breath  Beck  wheeled,  senses  steeled  to 
this  emergency,  driving  down  the  quick  panic  that  wanted 
to  throttle  his  heart. 

There  in  the  shaft  of  yellow  light,  bareheaded,  stepping 
toward  him,  arm  raised  to  fire  again,  was  Dick  Hilton.  It 
was  a  situation  in  which  fractions  of  time  were  infinitely 
precious.  That  first  shot  had  gone  wild  because  the  East- 
erner, unfamiliar  with  fire  arms,  unnerved  by  the  rage 
which  swept  up  wnthin  him,  had  let  his  eagerness  have  full 
sway.  But  now  he  was  stepping  forward,  coming  closer. 
At  that  range  he  could  not  miss ! 

And  Beck  saw  all  that  in  the  split  second  it  required  for 
him  to  whirl,  leaving  his  back  exposed  to  those  other  men  for 
the  instant.  He  squeezed  the  trigger  as  he  flipped  his  left- 
hand  gun  toward  his  assailant.  The  two  reports  sounded 
almost  as  one,  but  the  stream  of  fire  from  Hilton's  weapon 
instead  of  stabbing  toward  Beck  streaked  into  the  air  and 
the  automatic,  ripped  from  his  hand  by  the  same  ball  that 
tore  his  fingers,  spun  clinking  to  earth. 

But  even  as  it  struck,  before  Beck  could  turn  again  to 
cover  the  room  behind,  a  swinging  palm  sent  the  lamp  crash- 
ing to  the  floor.  He  sprang  clear  of  the  doorway.  An 
instant  before  he  had  dominated  the  situation,  now  he  was 
a  fugitive. 

Inside,  darkness ;  out  in  the  dooryard,  starlight.  Inside, 
ruthless  enemies  who  had  listened  to  a  declaration  that  pre- 


i64  THE  LAST  STRAW 

eluded  quarter;  outside,  their  target  who  could  not  hope  to 
live  before  the  fusillade  that  must  come. 

"  Put  up  your  hands!  "  Beck  gasped,  jabbing  a  gun  into 
Hilton's  stomach  and  springing  behind  the  Easterner's  body, 
screening  himself. 

Crouched  there,  peering  over  the  other's  shoulder,  one  gun 
against  Hilton's  trembling  body,  the  other  thrust  past  it  to 
cover  the  doorway,  he  paused.  He  heard  quick,  unsteady 
footsteps,  an  oath,  a  hurried  word  and  then  the  man  before 
him  cried  huskily: 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  shoot,  boys !     You'll  get  me !  " 

After  that  there  passed  a  moment  in  which  Hilton's  breath 
made  the  only  sound  that  came  to  Beck's  ears. 

"  I'm  going  to  back  up  to  my  horse,"  he  said  lowly, 
"  you  follow  me." 

It  was  unnecessary  to  add  a  threat.  Enough  threat  in  the 
situation ! 

Slowly  he  began  to  back,  feeling  his  way,  shoving  the 
one  gun  harder  against  Hilton's  body,  keeping  the  other 
ready  for  instant  use  should  those  who  watched  choose  to 
shoot  down  the  Easterner  to  be  at  him.  The  roan  snorted 
softly  in  query  and  Beck  spoke.  But  the  animal,  startled  by 
the  shooting,  unsatisfied  that  this  huddle  creeping  toward 
him  was  wholly  friendly,  backed  off.  Tom  spoke  again; 
then  ceased  all  movement,  for  from  inside  had  come  a  mut- 
tering and  stealthy  footsteps  crossed  the  floor.  A  door  at 
the  rear  of  the  house  creaked.  One  or  several  had  gone 
out  to  stalk  him !  The  others,  he  knew,  waited  within  to 
take  first  opportunity  to  kill  that  might  be  offered. 

"  Stand  still !  "  he  said  sharply  to  the  horse  and  turned 
his  head  ever  so  quickly  to  see  the  animal,  head  to  him, 
back  slowly. 

He  moved  backward  faster  for  a  few  steps,  shoving  the 
revolver  harder  into  Hilton's  body  to  assure  his  obedience, 
but  the  horse  only  progressed  as  rapidly,  snuffing  loudly  at 
this  performance  which  no  horse  could  be  expected  to  un- 
derstand ! 


THE  WARNING  165 

They  moved  in  a  circle,  swinging  in  toward  the  house. 
Beck  ever  keeping  Hilton  as  a  direct  screen.  He  stopped 
and  the  horse  stopped.  He  listened.  He  heard  soft  move- 
ments within  the  house.  He  thought  he  heard  a  faint 
rustling  behind  a  far  corner  of  the  building  but  a  cow, 
bawling  at  the  moment,  obscured  the  faint  sound. 

Beck  felt  a  cold  damp  standing  out  on  his  body.  From 
the  darkness,  from  any  direction,  disaster  might  strike  at 
anv  second ! 

He  began  to  talk  to  the  horse  soothingly,  moving  toward 
him  slowly,  but  the  roan  would  not  understand.  Once  he 
was  within  an  arm's  length  of  the  bridle,  but  before  he  could 
grasp  it  the  animal  had  swung  his  head  ever  so  slightly 
and  was  moving  off  again,  passing  a  corner  of  the  house 
from  where  that  suggestion  of  a  rustle  had  come. 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  the  horse  leaped  sideways,  with  a 
startled  grunt,  as  a  horse  will  that  comes  upon  a  coiled 
snake.  He  lunged  toward  Beck  and  Hilton,  swinging  about 
on  his  hind  feet,  beginning  to  run  for  the  gate,  thoroughly 
frightened  and  bent  on  escape  from  the  thing  that  alarmed 
him. 

It  was  Beck's  last  chance !  As  the  horse  leaped  toward  the 
gate  he  sprang  back  a  pace  from  Hilton,  raised  both  guns 
and  fired,  one  at  the  window,  one  at  the  doorway.  Glass 
burst  and  tinkled  and  he  heard  the  panel  of  the  door  again 
sliver.  As  he  opened  fire  the  great  roan  swerved ;  his  hoofs 
spurned  the  ground  in  the  impatience  of  fright  and  Beck, 
shooting  again  toward  the  house,  turned  and  ran  swiftly  for 
the  fleeing  horse. 

Down  in  the  shadows  the  thing  which  had  frightened  the 
horse  rose,  stumbling  into  shape.  Flame  streamed  from 
Beck's  guns  toward  it,  but  he  shot  as  he  ran  and  his  lire  was 
inaccurate.  He  cried  sharply  as  the  animal  swung  even 
wider  in  his  circuit  toward  the  gate,  sprang  forward  in  long 
strides,  dropped  the  gun  from  his  right  hand,  leaped,  fast- 
ened his  fingers  about  the  horn,  took  two  quick  strides  and 
vaulted  into  the  saddle. 


i66  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  animal  leaped  the  half  lowered  bars  and  Beck  fired 
again,  twice  at  the  house,  once  at  the  figure  outside,  and 
then  flung  himself  far  down  over  the  roan's  shoulder  as  the 
window  belched  flame  and  stabs  of  it  came  from  about  the 
building  and  bullets  screeched  overhead.  He  fanned  the 
roan's  belly  with  his  hat  and  twenty  rods  further  swung 
into  an  erect  position  again,  leaning  low  as  they  ate  the 
road. 

"  A  close  one,  old  timer ! "  he  muttered  to  the  horse. 
"  That  was  a  chance !  " 

And  miles  further  on,  when  the  roan  had  cooled  from  his 
first  desperate  dash  that  had  carried  Tom  to  unquestionable 
safety  for  the  night,  he  said  aloud : 

"  Now  what  was  he  doin'  there?  And  how  much  will  he 
count?" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


HIS    FAITHFUL   LITTLE   PONY 


IX  the  days  that  followed  you  might  have  seen  approach- 
ing from  a  distance  a  rider  for  the  H  C.  Watching, 
you  would  have  noticed  that  he  stopped  his  horse,  rode  on, 
stopped  again,  rode  on  and  stopped  the  third  time.  Had  you 
not  halted  and  repeated  the  performance  he  would  not  have 
come  toward  you  and,  on  coming  within  eyesight,  you  might 
have  seen  him  sitting  with  a  hand  on  his  holster,  or  rifle 
scabbard  —  for  the  deadlier  weapons  appeared  —  carelessly 
enough,  outwardly,  but  latent  with  disaster.  For  war  had 
been  declared.  Jane  Hunter's  men  were  ready  for  trouble, 
waiting  for  trouble,  but  it  did  not  come  at  once  for  though 
Hepburn  and  Webb  and  their  following  hated  Tom  Beck 
for  the  man  he  was  they  respected  him  and  gave  heed  to  his 
warning  to  stay  away  from  H  C  property  ...  or  at  least 
not  to  be  seen  thereabouts. 

The  war  went  on,  but  it  was  a  silent,  covert  struggle,  and 
though  Beck  suspected  happenings,  he  could  not  know  all 
that  transpired. 

For  instance : 

It  was  Webb  who  finally  dropped  the  pliers  and  declared 
the  job  finished,  standing  back  to  survey  the  stout  cedars 
which  had  been  bound  together  with  wire  to  form  a  gate  for 
one  of  the  numerous  little  blind  draws  that  stabbed  back 
into  the  parapet  which  surrounded  Devil's  Hole.  In  the 
recesses  of  that  draw  was  the  smallest  amount  of  seeping 
water,  enough,  say,  to  keep  young  calves  alive.  From  a 
distance  of  a  hundred  yards  this  barricade  of  tough  boughs 
and  steel  strands  would  not  be  detected. 

Again : 

167 


i68  THE  LAST  STRAW 

They  came  up  from  the  mouth  of  the  Hole  after  dusk  had 
fallen,  Bobby  Cole  and  her  father,  the  old  horses  drawing 
the  wagon  along  the  indistinct  track  which  wound  through 
the  sage.  They  were  tired  and  silent  and  finally  the  girl's 
head  dropped  to  Cole's  shoulder  and  she  slept,  with  his 
arm  about  her,  holding  her  close,  his  Hds  and  mustache  and 
shoulders  drooping. 

The  wagon  halted,  hours  later,  before  the  blocked  draw 
and,  straddled  upon  their  bodies,  the  girl  liberated  first  one 
calf,  then  another,  until  six  had  been  shoved  from  the  tail 
gate  into  the  hidden  pen.  Then  they  drove  back  toward 
their  cabin. 

"  Why  don't  I  think  it's  wrong  to  steal  ?  "  the  girl  asked 
soberly. 

Alf  shook  his  head.     "  It  ain't  .  .  .  for  us.  .  .  ." 

"  But  I've  read  that  it  is,"  she  protested,  scowling  into  the 
darkness.  "  I  read  it  in  a  book,  about  a  man  that  stole ;  that 
book  said  it  was  wrong.     Why  don't  I  think  it's  wrong?" 

She  turned  her  face  to  him  and  he  looked  down  to  see, 
under  the  starlight,  her  mouth  pathetically  drooping,  her 
lips  trembHng,  and  the  big  brown  eyes  filled  with  perplexed 
tears. 

"  Why  'm  I  so  different  from  other  folks  ?  Maybe  that's 
why  I  never  had  no  friends.  .  .  ." 

"  It  ain't  wrong  for  you  to  steal  from  her,"  he  said  de- 
fensively. 

The  girl  looked  ahead  again. 

"  No,  it  can't  be.  I  hate  her  ...  I  like  to  steal  from 
her.  But  why  ain't  it  wrong  for  me  if  it's  wrong  for  any- 
body else  ?  " 

"  I've  alius  told  you  it  was  the  thing  to  do.  Ain't  that 
enough  ?  "  he  asked  wearily.  .  .  . 

"Did  you  see  him  this  mornin'?" — as  if  to  change  the 
subject. 

Bobby  nodded  her  head. 

"  He  was  down.  He  hurt  his  hand ;  got  it  shut  under 
Webb's  window.     He  ...  He  stayed  a  long  time." 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        169 

Pier  voice  was  quite  changed ;  rather  soft  and  reverent. 
"  I'm  glad  he  did.  When  he's  there  I  feel  like  I  ain't  so 
different  .  .  .  not  so  awful  different  from  other  folks.  .  .  ." 

Alf  did  not  reply.  The  wagon  chucked  heavily  on,  the 
brush  scratched  the  wagon  bed,  the  horses  plodded  listlessly. 
Dawn  came.  ... 

Another  thing : 

Far  out  to  the  north  and  west  of  the  Gap  in  Devil's  Hole 
was  a  natural  reservoir,  Cathedral  Tank.  Winter  floods 
were  stored  there  and  long  after  surrounding  miles  of 
quickly  growing  grasses  had  become  useless  as  range  be- 
cause of  the  lack  of  drink,  this  tank  afforded  water  for 
the  H  C  cattle.  Late  in  the  Spring,  of  course,  it  became 
scum  covered  and  fetid  but  until  the  caked  silt  commenced 
to  show  on  the  boulder  basin  the  cattle  would  cling  there, 
saving  higher  range  for  later  use.  Then,  in  other  years, 
they  would  drift  up  toward  the  Hole,  graze  through  the 
Gap  and  water  in  the  creek  until  the  round-up  caught  and 
carried  them  into  still  higher  country. 

This  spring  the  desert  tank  was  of  far  greater  importance 
than  ever  before.  The  Hole  was  closed  to  the  H  C  unless 
rain  fell,  and  the  days  were  uniformly  clear,  so  it  was  wis- 
dom to  delay  the  round-up  until  the  tank  was  emptied,  then 
shove  the  cattle  straight  past  the  mouth  of  the  Hole  and 
start  them  up  country  from  the  lower  waters  of  Coyote 
Creek.  Beck  rode  to  the  tank  himself  and  arranged  his 
plans  in  accordance  with  the  water  he  found. 

But  after  Beck  had  been  there  another  horseman  made 
the  ride,  leaving  the  timber  at  dusk,  shacking  along  across 
the  waste  country  in  a  straight  line  for  the  tank.  Cattle, 
bedded  for  the  night  about  the  water  hole,  stirred  themselves 
as  he  approached  and  dismounted,  then  stood  nearby  and 
watched  a  strange  proceeding.  The  man  found  a  crevice 
in  the  rock  basin,  scraped  deeply  into  it  with  a  clasp  knife. 
Then  he  wedged  in  five  sticks  of  dynamite  with  stones  and, 
finally,  rolled  boulders  over  them. 


lyo  THE  LAST  STRAW 

He  led  his  horse  far  back  after  the  fuse  had  been  spit,  but 
even  where  he  stood,  outside  the  circle  of  steers,  rock  fell. 
After  the  explosion  had  died  into  the  night  he  pulled  at  his 
mustache  and  regained  his  saddle  rather  deliberately,  chuck- 
ling to  himself. 

The  fact  that  a  steer  with  a  broken  leg  was  bawling  loudly 
and  that  another,  its  life  torn  out  of  its  side,  moaned  softly 
in  helplessness,  did  not  im^^ress  him.  He  rode  back  as  he 
had  come. 

There  was  little  time  for  love  making  in  the  life  of  the  H  C 
foreman.  More  riders  were  necessar}^  for  the  round-up 
and  he  was  particular  about  the  men  he  hired.  The  country 
had  taken  sides :  rather,  it  was  either  openly  behind  Beck 
in  his  handicapped  fight,  though  skeptical  of  his  chances  for 
winning  or  openly  forecasting  failure  for  him  and  Jane 
Hunter;  and  of  the  latter  Tom  had  his  doubts.  Many  of 
them  were  not  neutral,  he  knew. 

But  he  wias  with  Jane  when  he  could  be  although,  since 
he  had  declared  himself  to  Webb  and  Hepburn,  he  did  not 
permit  her  to  ride  far  from  the  ranch,  even  when  with  escort. 
He  wanted  her  witness  to  no  tragedy,  and  tragedy  impended. 

Of  the  motives  of  Webb,  Hepburn,  Cole  and  their  follow- 
ing he  had  no  doubts  but  there  was  one  whose  reasons  were 
a  mystery  to  him.  He  studied  this  long  hours,  when  at 
work,  when  lying  sleepless  on  his  bunk  and  even  when  with 
Jane  Hunter.  Hilton  was  at  Webb's  and  that  was  enough 
to  brand  him  .  .  .  but  how  deeply?  He  hesitated  to  enlist 
her  aid  in  the  solution  but  when  he  had  spent  days  puzzling 
to  no  result  he  said  to  her : 

"  Nothing  about  what  you  have  been  matters  with  me, 
but  there's  one  thing  I  want  to  ask  you." 

"And  that?" 

He  eyed  her  a  speculative  moment  -as  they  sat  beside 
her  desk,  the  yellow  light  on  her  yellow  hair. 

"  What  was  this  Hilton  to  you?  " 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        171 

She  colored  and  dropped  her  gaze  from  his,  picking  at 
a  book  in  her  lap. 

"  That  belongs  to  the  past,"  she  said,  "  and  you've  just 
said  that  the  past  doesn't  matter.  I  had  hoped  you  never 
would  want  to  know  because  it  touches  a  spot  that  isn't 
healed  yet.  .  .  . 

"  There  was  a  time,"  lifting  her  eyes  to  his,  "  when  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  Dick  Hilton." 

He  sat  very  quietly  and  his  expression  did  not  change. 

"  That  would  have  been  too  bad,  Jane,"  he  said  after  a 
moment. 

She  nodded  slowly  in  affirmation. 

'*  Td  rather  he  wasn't  in  the  country  just  now,"  he  went 
on.     "  You  wouldn't  mind,  would  you,  if  I  drove  him  out?  " 

She  said  quickly : 

"  You  trust  me,  don't  you?  " 

He  smiled  gently  and  looked  at  her  with  a  light  in 
his  eyes  that  was  almost  humble. 

"  I've  trusted  you  with  my  love.  I  want  to  do  things  for 
you.     I'd  like  to  drive  this  man  out  of  your  way." 

He  was  reluctant  to  give  his  real  reason  because,  by  do- 
ing so,  he  would  necessarily  make  her  aware  of  the  strength 
of  the  menace  of  which  Hilton,  he  felt  but  could  not  prove, 
was  a  part.  He  still  wanted  to  shield  her  from  full  realiza- 
tion of  the  force  aligned  against  her. 

She  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  hands  folded. 

"  I  wish  he  would  go  away,  but  I  wouldn't  want  to  see  him 
driven.  You  see,  there  are  things  about  me  which  you  will 
never  understand.  Dick  Hilton,  for  a  man,  was  not  far 
different  from  what  I  used  to  be,  as  a  woman.  Our  im- 
pulses were  quite  similar.  Since  I  feel  that  I  have  estab- 
lished my  right  to  exist  by  trying  to  do  something,  to  be 
somebody  to  .  .  .  walk  alone,  I've  come  to  an  appreciation 
of  the  thing  that  I  used  to  be,  and  I  pity  the  old  Jane  Hunter 
and  all  her  kind.  In  spite  of  all  that  he  has  been,  I  pity 
Dick  Hilton,  Tom,  and  in  that  very  fact  I  see  an  indication 
of  strength  of  which  I'm  proud.  .  .  . 


172  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  You  see,  I  like  to  think  about  myself  now ;  that  didn't 
used  to  be  true. 

"  Last  year  I  would  have  been  deeply  resentful  toward 
Dick  for  what  he  has  done,  but  now,  after  my  natural  anger 
has  gone,  I  can  only  be  sorry  for  him.  That,  I  feel,  is  true 
strength. 

"  I  am  not  bitter.  I  don't  wish  him  harm.  His  environ- 
ment is  to  blame  for  what  he  is  and  perhaps  this  country, 
the  people  he  comes  in  contact  with  here,  will  do  for  him 
what  they  have  done  for  me."  Beck  thought  that  this  was 
an  unconscious  absurdity !  "  I  begrudge  him  nothing.  I 
only  wish  that  he  might  come  to  see  life  as  I  have  come  to 
see  it. 

*'  If  he  could  only  see  himself  as  he  is!  Why,  he  is  in- 
telligent, he  has  a  good  mind,  he  has  been  generous  and 
kindly,  and  if  he  could  only  get  set  straight  in  his  outlook 
I  feel  that  I  could  call  him  my  friend. 

"  Do  you  understand  that?" 

He  shook  his  head,  driving  back  the  perplexity  he  felt. 

''  No,  I  don't  understand  that.  .  .  .  There's  lots  of  things 
I'll  never  quite  understand  about  you,  I  expect.  That's  one 
thing  that  made  me  love  you ;  you  interest  me. 

I  just  thought  maybe  you'd  like  him  out  of  the  country." 
I  can  never  be  a  dog  in  the  manger,"  she  replied. 
What  is  good  about  this  life  I  would  share  with  my  worst 
enemy,  and  gladly,  because  at  one  time  I  was  my  own  w^orst 
enemy." 

"  You  .  .  .  you  don't  think  you'd  ever  w^ant  to  see  him 
again,  Jane?"  With  that  evidence  of  natural  jealousy  was 
a  gentle  reproach,  a  woe-begone  expression  which,  being 
so  groundless  in  fact,  set  Jane  Hunter  laughing. 

*'  Silly !  "  she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  about  him. 

"  Look  at  me  and  read  the  answer !  " 

Beck  laughed  at  himself  then. 

*'  Who  wouldn't  want  yoit  all  to  himself !  "  he  whispered. 
''  And  who  wouldn't  believe  in  you !  " 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        17a 

'Beck  stood  a  long  time  under  the  stars  that  night,  the  feel 
of  her  Hps  still  on  his,  but  an  uncomfortable  doubt  in  his 
heart.  He  was  tolerant,  as  mountain  men  are  tolerant,  but 
he  had  been  bred  in  a  hard  school ;  he  had  learned  to  weigh 
men  and  to  discard  those  who  were  found  wanting.  He  was 
not  vindictive,  but  he  took  no  chances.  Placing  his  trust 
in  those  who  had  showed  repeatedly  that  they  were  unworthy 
of  trust  was  taking  a  chance  and  though  Jane  Hunter  had 
done  her  best  to  make  her  reasoning  carry,  he  could  not 
comprehend. 

Finally  he  said :  "  This  ain't  any  compliment  to  her, 
wonderin'  like  this.  It's  her  way  and  she  sure's  got  a  right 
to  it !  " 

But  he  went  to  sleep  unsatisfied. 

Out  at  Cathedral  Tank  that  night  the  cattle  stood  snuffing 
rather  wonderingly.  Two  days  before  there  had  been  water 
which  reached  their  knees  at  the  deepest  place ;  today  there 
was  none.  It  had  trickled  through  the  scars  the  blast  had 
torn  in  the  basin.  The  bellies  of  some  were  a  bit  shrunken 
from  lack  of  it  and  bodies  of  the  steers  that  had  been  killed 
were  bloated.  One,  even,  had  already  furnished  food  to  a 
coyote  and  a  pair  of  vultures. 

Three  or  four  licked  the  last  of  the  damp  silt  and  then 
turned  eastward  and  began  the  slow  trek  back  toward  Devil's 
Hole,  where  at  this  season  they  had  gone  since  they  had 
been  calves. 

The  Reverend  saw  this  scattered  stringing  of  cattle  and 
reported  it  to  Beck.  Tom  looked  up  from  the  wheel  of  the 
chuck  wagon  which  he  was  repairing  and  considered. 

"  They're  early,"  he  muttered.  ''  I  hadn't  figured  they'd 
leave  before  the  end  of  the  week.  .  .  .  That's  bad.  .  .  ." 

The  next  morning  he  and  Two-Bits,  the  latter  riding  his 
beloved  Nigger,  with  an  extra  horse  carrying  the  tee-pee, 
bed  and  grub,  clattered  down  the  trail  into  the  Hole  and 
made  through  the  brush  for  the  Gap.     They  skirted  the  Cole 


174  THE  LAST  STRAW 

ranch,  eyeing  the  Mexicans  who  were  at  work  clearing  sage 
brush,  and  a  mile  further  on  halted  their  horses  .  .  .  rode 
forward,  halted  again,  rode  forward  .  .  .  stopped. 

"It's  McKee,"  Two-Bits  said.  "That's  Webb's  gray 
horse." 

The  other  rider  came  on  and  they  rode  forward  again. 
Beck's  holster  hitched  a  bit  forward,  thumb  locked  in  his 
belt. 

Two-Bits  had  been  right  and  when  McKee  recognized 
them  he  averted  his  face  as  though  he  would  ride  past  with- 
out speaking.  But  this  was  not  to  be  for  Beck  stopped  di- 
rectly in  his  way  and  said : 

"  Sam,  if  it  was  anybody  else  I'd  been  shootin'  long  ago. 
I  ain't  got  the  heart  to  kill  you.  You  recollect,  don't  you, 
what  I  told  you  and  your  crowd  about  driftin'  into  our  terri- 
tory?" 

"  This  ain't  your  range,"  McKee  grumbled.  "  This  is 
Cole's." 

His  gray  eyes  met  Beck's  just  once  and  fell  of?,  showing 
helpless  hate  in  their  depths,  the  hate  of  the  man  who  would 
give  battle  but  who  dares  not,  who  is  outraged  by  forces 
from  without  and  by  his  own  weakness. 

"  No  need  to  argue,"  Beck  replied,  tolerance  replaced  by 
a  snap  in  his  tone.  "  You  drag  it  for  your  own  range,  Mc- 
Kee, and  don't  you  stop  to  look  back." 

Two-Bits  was  delighted  at  the  hot  flush  which  swept  into 
the  other's  face.  He  loathed  McKee  and  to  see  him  under 
the  dominion  of  a  strong  man  like  Beck  appealed  to  him  as 
immensely  funny. 

"  An'  if  my  brother  was  here  he'd  tell  you  about  a  woman 
that  looked  back  an'  turned  to  salt,"  he  said.  "  But  if  you 
turn  an'  look  back  I'll  bet  two-bits  you  turn  to  somethin' 
worse !  " 

The  other  flashed  one  look  at  him,  a  look  of  long-standing 
hate,  devoid  of  a  measure  of  the  fear  which  he  evidenced  for 
Beck.  He  rode  on  without  a  word  and  Two-Bits  laughed 
aloud.     McKee  did  not  even  look  back. 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        175 

At  the  Gap  there  was  water,  just  enough  for  a  man  and 
his  horses  for  a  few  days.  The  seep  had  stopped  and  the 
water  was  not  fresh. 

"  I  guess  it'll  do,  though,"  Beck  said.  "  It's  mighty  im- 
portant we  keep  this  stock  out  of  the  Hole,  Two-Bits. 
That's  why  I  brought  a  trustworthy  man. 

"  Lord,  they're  stringin'  up  fast," —  staring  out  on  the 
desert  where  the  steers  slowly  ate  their  way  to  the  mouth 
of  the  Hole.  ''  Funny  they're  out  of  water  so  soon.  If 
they  get  up  in  here," —  gesturing  back  through  the  Gap, — 
"there  may  be  hell  to  pay." 

He  helped  Two-Bits  pitch  his  tee-pee  and  rode  away. 

Throughout  that  day  the  homely  cow-boy  met  the  drifting 
steers  and  turned  them  eastward,  past  the  Hole  toward  the 
lower  waters  of  Coyote  Creek.  They  were  reluctant  to  go 
for  they  knew  that  beyond  the  Gap  lay  water  but  Two-Bits 
slapped  his  chaps  with  rein  ends  and  whooped  and  chased 
them  until  the  van  of  the  procession  moved  on  in  the  desired 
direction. 

He  was  up  late  at  night  and  awoke  early  in  the  morning, 
riding  up  the  Gap  to  turn  back  those  that  had  stolen  past 
in  the  night,  then  stationing  himself  in  the  shade  of  the 
parapet  to  await  the  others  that  came  in  increasing  numbers. 

Two-Bits  did  not  see  the  gray  horse  picking  its  way  along 
the  heights  above  him.  The  gray's  rider  saw  to  it  that  he 
was  not  exposed.  Nor  could  he  know  that  the  animal  was 
picketed  and  that  a  man  crawled  over  the  rocks  on  his  belly, 
shoving  a  rifle  before  him  until,  from  a  point  that  screened 
him  well,  he  could  look  down  into  the  Gap. 

Steers  strolled  up  and  eyed  the  sentinel,  lifting  their  noses 
to  snuff,  flinging  heads  about  now  and  then  to  dislodge  flies 
that  their  flicking  tails  could  not  reach.  He  would  ride  out 
toward  them,  shoving  them  down  around  the  shoulder  of 
the  point  toward  the  east,  then  return  to  head  off  others 
that  took  advantage  of  his  absence  to  make  a  steal  for  the 
Gap. 

As  he  worked,  he  sang: 


176  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Ho,  I'm  a  jolly  cozvhoy,  from  Texas  now  I  hail! 

Give  me  my  quirt  and  po-o-ony,  Vm  ready  for  the  trail; 
I  love  the  rolling  prairies,  they're  free  from  care  an'  strife! 
Behind  a  herd  of  longhovns  I'll  journey  all  my  life!'' 

His  voice  was  unmusical,  unlovely,  but  he  sang  with  fer- 
vor, sang  as  conscientiously  as  he  worked. 

As  he  came  and  went  the  man  above  watched  him,  his 
gray  eyes  squinting  in  the  glare  of  light,  following  now  and 
then  the  barrel  of  the  rifle,  bringing  the  ivory  sight  to  bear 
on  the  man's  back,  caressing  the  trigger  with  his  finger.  A 
dozen  times  he  stiffened  and  held  his  breath  and  the  finger 
twitched;  and  each  time  his  body  relaxed  quickly  and  he 
cursed  softly,  rolling  over  on  his  side,  impatient  at  his  inde- 
cision. 

A  continued  flush  was  on  his  -cheeks  and  the  light  in  his 
eyes  was  baleful,  resolved,  yet  the  lines  of  his  mouth  were 
w^eak  and  indecisive.  Once,  when  Two-Bits'  raucous  voice 
reached  him,  he  muttered  aloud  and  stiffened  again  and 
squeezed  the  stock  with  his  trigger  hand  .  .  .  then  went 
limp. 

Noon  came  and  shadows  commenced  to  spill  into  the  gap 
from  the  westward.  The  steers  that  drifted  up  from  the  far 
reaches  of  wash-ribbed  desert  came  faster,  were  more  in- 
tent, more  reluctant  to  be  driven  back.  Two-Bits  changed 
to  his  Nigger  horse  and  drank  from  the  water  hole  and  rode 
yipping  toward  a  big  roan  steer  that  advanced  determinedly. 
The  animal  doubled  and  dodged  but,  shoulder,  against  its 
rump,  nipping  viciously  at  the  critter's  back.  Nigger  aided 
his  rider  to  success ;  then  swung  back. 

Two-Bits'  voice  floated  up  as  he  stroked  his  horse's  neck : 


i< 


Oh,  I'm  a  Texas  cowboy,  lightheated,  brave  an'  free, 
To  roam  the  wide  prairie  is  always  joy  to  me. 

My  trusty  little  po-o-ony  is  my  companion  true 

O'er  creeks  an'  hills  an'  rivers  he's  sure  to  pull  me 
through ! " 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        177 

From  above  a  dull  spat.  In  Two-Bits'  ears  an  abrupt 
crunching  as  he  was  knocked  forward  and  down  and  a  dull, 
rending  pain  spread  across  his  shoulders.  He  struck  the 
ground  with  his  face  first  and  instinctively  his  hand  started 
back  toward  his  holster.  The  first  movement  was  a  whip, 
then  became  jerky,  faltering,  and  when  the  fingers  found 
the  handle  of  his  revolver  they  fumbled  and  could  not  close. 
He  half  raised  himself  on  the  other  elbow,  dragging  his 
knees  beneath  his  body  slowly. 

His  mouth  was  filled  with  sand.  His  eyes  were  .  .  . 
He  did  not  know  what  ailed  them,  but  he  could  not  see. 
He  felt  dizzy  and  sick.  He  hitched  himself  upward  another 
degree,  striving  to  close  those  fingers  on  his  revolver  butt. 
It  was  a  Herculean  task,  but  the  only  necessary  action  that 
his  grogg}^  mind  could  recall.  He  gritted  the  sand  between 
his  teeth  in  the  effort.  He  would  draw !  He  would  fight 
back!     He  wasn't  gone  .  .  .  yet  .  .  .  wasn't  .  .  . 

And  then  he  collapsed,  limp  and  flat  on  the  ground,  as  an 
inert  body  will  lie. 

The  fingers  twitched  convulsively ;  then  were  still.  A 
stain  seeped  through  his  vest,  dark  in  the  sun.  The  breath 
slipped  through  his  teeth  slowly.  The  horse  stood  looking 
at  him,  nose  low;  then  stepped  closer  and  snuffed  gently; 
looked  rather  resentfully  at  a  steer  trailing  through  the  Gap 
unheeded,  then  snuffed  again.  .  .  . 

Up  above  a  man  vi^s  crawling  back  across  the  hot  rocks 
to  where  a  gray  horse  waited  in  the  sun.  .  .  . 

"  I  got  him,"  he  muttered  feverishly  as  he  covered  the  last 
distance  at  a  run.     "  Now,  by  God,  I'll  get  —  ..." 

Nigger  stood  there,  switching  at  the  flies  which  alighted 
on  him.  From  time  to  time  he  snuffed  and  stamped;  occa- 
sionally he  peered  far  up  the  Hole  or  out  onto  the  desert 
almost  hopefully,  watching  distant  objects  with  erect  ears; 
then  the  ears  would  droop  quickly  and  he  would  chew  his  bit 
and  look  back  at  his  master  with  helpless  eyes. 

Cattle  strayed  back  from  the  east  where  Two-Bits  had 
sent  them  and  entered  the  Hole,  those  which  had  once  been 


178  THE  LAST  STRAW 

driven  away  passing  the  prone  figure  and  the  watching  horse 
on  a  trot,  others  with  their  noses  in  the  air  smelHng  water, 
heedless  of  else. 

The  shadows  crept  closer  and  deeper  about  Two-Bits. 
Overhead  a  buzzard  wheeled,  banking  sharply,  coming  down 
lazily,  then  flapped  upward  and  on.     It  was  not  yet  his  time ! 

The  horse  dozed  fitfully,  one  hip  slumped,  waking  now 
and  then  with  a  jerk,  pricking  his  ears  at  the  quiet  figure  as 
though  he  detected  movement ;  then  letting  them  droop  again 
rather  forlornly.  Once  he  walked  completely  about  his 
master,  slowly,  reins  trailing  and  then  stopped  to  nose  the 
body  gently  as  if  to  say : 

"  What  is  this,  my  friend  ?  I'm  only  a  horse  and  I  don't 
understand;  if  I  knew  how  to  help  you  I  would.  Won't 
you  tell  me  what  to  do?  I'm  waiting  here  just  for  that;  to 
help  you.     But  I'm  only  a  horse  .  .  /' 

He  plucked  grass  aimlessly  and  returned  to  stand  above 
the  man's  body  chewing  abstractedly,  stopping  and  holding 
his  breath  while  he  gazed  down  at  the  inanimate  lump ;  then 
chewing  again.  Once  he  sighed  deeply  and  the  saddle 
creaked  from  the  strain  his  inhalation  put  on  the  cinch. 

For  hours  there  had  been  no  movement.  Night  stole 
down  from  the  east,  shrouding  the  desert  in  purple,  softening 
the  harsh  distances,  making  them  seem  gentle  and  easy. 
Then  from  the  still  man  came  a  sound,  like  a  sigh  that  was 
choked  off,  and  the  hand  which,  hours  before  had  groped 
haltingly  for  the  revolver,  stirred  ever  so  slightly. 

Nigger's  ears  went  forward.  He  stepped  gingerly  about 
the  body,  keeping  his  fore  feet  close  to  it,  swinging  his  hind 
parts  in  a  big  circle.  He  nickered  softly,  almost  entreat- 
ingly,  as  if  begging  his  master  to  speak,  to  make  more  move- 
ment; he  nuzzled  the  body  rather  roughly,  then  stamped  in 
impatience  .  .  .  sighed  again  and  slumped  a  hip,  chewing 
on  his  bit.  .  .  . 

Two-Bits  was  wet  with  dew  when  daylight  came,  but  he 
had  not  stirred.  The  sun  peered  into  the  Gap  and  the  drops 
of  moisture,  blinking  back  a  brief  interval,  seemed  to  draw 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        179 

into  his  clothing  and  skin ;  the  rays  Hcked  up  the  damp  that 
had  gathered  in  the  hoof  prints  about  the  figure. 

Nigger  lifted  his  head  high  and  whinnered  shrilly  at 
nothing  at  all.     This  was  another  day ;  there  might  be  hope  ! 

The  flies  came  and  lighted  on  the  crusted  stain  on  the  vest 
and  crawled  down  inside  the  shirt  .  .  .  and  after  an  aeon 
a  sharp,  white  wire  of  consciousness  commenced  to  glow  in 
Two-Bits'  blank  mind.  The  one  hand  —  the  gun  hand  — 
twitched  again  and  the  fingers,  puffed  from  their  cramped 
position,  stretched  stiffly,  resuming  their  struggle  for  the 
gun  where  it  had  left  off  yesterday. 

One  foot  moved  a  trifle  and  a  muffled  cough  sent  a  small 
spurt  of  dust  from  beneath  the  face  pressed  into  it.  Slowly 
the  gun  hand  gave  up  its  search  and  was  still,  gathering 
strength.  The  arm  drew  up  along  the  man's  side,  the  hand 
reached  his  face.  Elbows  pressed  into  the  ground  and  with 
a  moan  Two-Bits  tried  to  lift  his  body  .  .  .  tried  and  failed 
and  sank  back,  with  his  face  turned  away  from  the  dirt. 

Nigger  blew  loudly  and  shook  his  whole  body  and  stared. 
The  other  horse  came  up  and  stared,  too ;  then  moved  to- 
ward the  water  hole,  the  precious  water,  and  drank  deeply. 
Nigger  watched  him  as  though  he,  too,  would  drink.  But 
he  did  not  go  ;  remained  there,  with  the  reins  dangling  among 
the  flies.  Now  and  then  his  nostrils  twitched  and  fluttered ; 
his  ears  quirked  in  constant  query. 

Noon,  and  another  effort  to  rise.  A  muttered  word  this 
time  and  a  squinting  of  the  eyes  that  was  not  wholly  witless. 

Two-Bits  shifted  his  position.  He  could  see  his  tee-pee, 
his  black  kettle  on  the  ashes,  his  water  bucket  .  .  .  his 
bucket  .  .  .  water  bucket  .  .  .  water.  .  .  .  He  worked  his 
lips  heavily.  They  were  burned  and  cracked  and  his  mouth 
was  an  insensate  orifice.  .  . 

After  a  time  he  commenced  to  crawl,  moving  an  inch  at  a 
time,  settling  back,  moaning.  The  crusted  stain  on  his  vest 
took  on  fresh  life  and  the  flies  buzzed  angrily  when  disturbed. 
His  arms  were  of  little  use  and  he  progressed  by  slow  undu- 
lations of  his  limbs.     Once  he  found  a  crack  between  two 


i8o  THE  LAST  STRAW 

rocks  wiith  a  toe  and  shoved  himself  forward  a  foot. 

"  Damn  .  .  ."  he  muttered  in  feeble  triumph. 

A  fevered  glow  came  into  his  eyes.  His  breath  quickened 
under  the  effort.     He  moaned  more ;  rested  less. 

And  behind,  beside  or  before  him  went  the  excited  Nigger. 
He  muttered  softly,  as  in  encouragement,  doing  his  best  to 
put  his  hope  into  sounds.  His  heavy  mane  and  forelock 
fell  about  his  eyes,  giving  him  a  disheveled  appearance,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  trying  to  say : 

"  You're  alive ;  you're  alive !  You  raw  move  after  all ; 
you  can  move !  Let  me  help !  Oh,  pardner,  let  me  help 
you !  " 

The  horse  pawed  the  earth  desperately,  sending  stones  and 
dirt  scattering,  dust  drifting. 

"  Keep  on !  "  he  seemed  to  say.  "  Keep  it  up !  I'm  here ; 
we'll  get  there  somehow !  " 

Two-Bits  gained  shadows.  The  water  was  less  than  a 
hundred  feet  away.  He  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side 
in  an  agony  of  effort  and  threw  one  hand  clumsily  before 
him.  It  touched  sage  brush  and  after  moments  of  struggle 
he  clamped  his  fingers  about  the  stalk  and  dragged  himself 
on,  gritting  his  teeth  against  the  pain.  He  reached  a  little 
wash  and  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet.  He  could  not.  He  floun- 
dered in  effort  and  rolled  into  it,  crying  lowly  as  his  torso 
doubled  limply  and  he  sprawled  on  his  back. 

Nigger  stood  at  the  edge,  snuffing,  peering  down.  He 
kicked  at  a  fly  irritably  and  stepped  down  into  the  wash 
himself,  nickering  in  tender  query. 

It  took  a  long  time  for  Two-Bits  to  roll  over.  He  cried 
hoarsely  from  the  hurt  of  the  effort  and  the  fevered  light 
in  his  eyes  mounted.  His  mouth  was  no  longer  without 
sensation.  It  and  his  throat  stung  and  smarted.  Their 
hurt  was  worse  than  the  weight  of  suffering  on  his  shoulders. 
...  He  wanted  water  as  only  a  man  whose  life  is  in  the 
balance  can  want  water ! 

S-omehow  he  crawled  out  of  the  wash.  It  was  fifty  feet 
to  the  hole  now.  ...  He  cut  it  to  twenty  and  lay  gasping, 


HIS  FAITHFUL  LITTLE  PONY        181 

trembling,  burning,  Nigger  close  beside  him,  first  on  one 
side,  then  the  other,  sometimes  at  his  feet.  Never,  though, 
standing  motionless  in  his  path.  .  .  . 

It  was  ten  feet.  .  .  .  Then  five.  Lifting  eye  lids  was  a 
world  of  effort  in  itself.  His  mouth  was  open,  breath  suck- 
ing in  the  dust,  but  he  could  not  close  it.  He  made  a  hand's 
breadth  and  stopped.  His  limbs  twitched  spasmodically  and 
drew  up.  He  made  a  straining,  strangling  sound,  gathering 
all  the  life  that  remained  in  his  body.  He  rose  on  his  elbows 
and  on  one  knee.  He  swayed  forward,  he  scrambled  drunk- 
enly.  He  patched  down  and  as  he  w^ent  he  made  one  last, 
awkward  attempt  to  push  his  own  weight  along.  Then  fell 
.  .  .  short. 

The  right  hand  half  propped  his  body  up.  It  slid  slowly 
forward,  impelled  by  the  weight  upon  it  alone,  shoving  light 
sand  in  its  way.  .  .  .  Then  went  limp  and  extended. 

The  tip  of  his  second  finger  just  dented  the  surface  of  the 
water  in  the  pool ! 

The  horse  switched  his  tail  slowly,  as  if  disconsolate  at 
a  waning  hope. 

"  Hang  it  all,"  he  might  have  thought.  "  Here  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  make  it  and  you  can't!  I  zifish  1  knew 
how  to  help  !  " 

He  sighed  again,  this  time  as  if  in  despair.  He  waited 
a  long  time  before  drinking  himself  'as  if  hoping  that  his 
master  would  move.  But  the  body  was  motionless  .  .  . 
utterly.  The  shallow,  quick  come  and  go  of  breath  was  not 
in  evidence.  Two-Bits  had  done  all  that  he  could  do  for 
himself.  .  .  . 

Nigger  moved  to  the  lip  of  rock  which  held  the  water 
against  the  cliff.  He  snuffed,  as  if  to  tantalize  himself  and 
then  plunged  his  nose  into  the  place,  guzzling  greedily. 
Great  gulps  ran  down  his  long  throat,  little  shoots  of  water 
left  his  lips  beside  the  bit  and  fell  back.  He  breathed  and 
drank  and  made  great  sounds  in  satisfying  his  thirst.  He 
lifted  his  head  and  caught  his  breath  and  let  it  slip  out  in 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction  .  .  .  drank  again. 


i82  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Finally  he  was  through  and  stepped  back,  holding  his  lips 
close,  as  horses  will  whose  mouth  contains  one  more  swallow. 
Then  he  stared  at  Two-Bits  and  moved  close  to  him  and 
chewed  instinctively  on  the  bit,  letting  the  water  that  he  did 
not  need  spill  from  his  mouth.  ... 

It  fell  squarely  on  the  back  of  the  man's  neck,  spattering 
on  his  hair,  running  down  under  his  shirt,  driving  out  the 
flies.  .  .  . 

Two-Bits  swam  back  again.  A  strength,  a  pleasing  chill 
ran  through  him.  He  moved  the  one  arm  and  the  fingers 
slid  on  into  the  water.  With  a  choking  cry  he  wriggled  for- 
ward and  thrust  his  face  into  the  pool.  .  .  .  After  a  long 
time  he  drew  back  and  let  his  fevered  forehead  soak,  breath- 
ing more  easily  through  his  mouth. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  when  he  rolled  over,  slowly,  pain- 
fully, weakly,  but  not  as  a  man  on  the  edge  of  death.  He 
looked  up  at  Nigger  standing  beside  him,  nose  fluttering 
encouragement.  Just  above  him  ,  stirrup  swung  to  and  fro 
in  a  short  arc, 

"  After  a  while  ...  a  week  or  so,  I  can  .  .  .  get  hold 
of  that  .  .  .  mebby,"  the  man  said  huskily. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AN    INTERRUPTED   PROPOSAL 

THE  love  that  grew  In  the  hearts  of  Tom  Beck  and 
Jane  Hunter  was  not  the  only  suit  which  approached 
a  climax  in  the  hills.  Another  existed,  quite  different,  un- 
known to  them,  unsuspected,  even,  but  it  was  not  a  secret 
to  one  who  rode  from  the  H  C  ranch. 

This  was  the  Reverend  Azariah  Beal.  He  stayed  on, 
though  assuring  Beck  that  the  call  might  come  any  hour 
which  would  send  him  on  his  way.  He  was  sent  on  many 
errands  of  importance,  because  Beck  had  come  to  believe  that 
he  could  trust  the  clergyman  as  he  could  trust  no  other  man 
and  it  was  this  riding  which  gave  Beal  his  knowledge  of 
that  other  love  making. 

Day  after  day  he  saw  Dick  Hilton  in  Devil's  Hole.  He 
saw  him  joined  by  another  rider,  by  Bobby  Cole,  and  knew 
that  the  Easterner  spent  many  days  at  the  ranch  house  down 
there  in  the  deep  valley. 

Hilton  treated  the  girl  as  she  never  had  been  treated  be- 
fore. He  told  her  tales  of  cities  and  men  and  women  that 
held  her  breathless  and  he  wooed  her  with  an  artfulness 
which  kept  her  unaware  of  love  making.  When  with  him, 
as  when  with  her  father,  that  ready  defiance,  her  expectation 
of  trouble,  became  reduced  to  a  wistfulness,  an  eager  inquiry 
which  left  her,  not  the  self-sufficient  bundle  of  passionate 
strength,  but  a  simple  mountain  child. 

He  would  ride  beside  her  or  sit  at  night  by  the  fire  in  her 
father's  cabin  and  talk  for  hours,  giving  of  his  experience 
well,  for  he  was  a  glib  talker.  He  asked  nothing  in  return 
.  .  .  openly,  but  while  he  talked  his  eyes  were  on  her  eyes, 

183 


i84  THE  LAST  STRAW 

prodding  their  depths,  on  her  red  mouth,  hungering,  on  her 
wonderful  throat,  fired  by  desire.  He  bided  his  time,  for  his 
was  a  choice  prize. 

Now  and  then  she  talked  to  him  of  Jane  Hunter  and 
though  her  allusions  were  scornful  and  her  face  assumed  that 
hostility,  he  knew  that  'this  only  resulted  from  her  envy,  the 
curiosity  which  she  would  not  let  come  into  being.  He 
played  upon  this,  dropping  hints  of  the  reason  for  his  com- 
ing west,  lying  insinuations  of  his  relationships  with  the 
mistress  of  the  big  ranch,  each  hint  a  fertile  seed  planted  in 
the  rich  soil  of  her  imagination. 

One  afternoon  they  dismounted  in  a  clump  of  willows 
where  early  in  the  season  and  in  wet  summers  a  spring 
bubbled  under  a  rim  rock.  Now  it  was  dry,  almost  dust- 
dry  in  places,  and  the  girl  sat  on  the  grass  while  Hilton 
stretched  at  her  feet,  smoking  idly. 

He  talked  to  her  for  long  and  when  he  paused  she  said, 
looking  far  away: 

"  I'd  like  to  see  somethin'  else  besides  this.  I'd  like  to 
have  some  of  the  chances  other  gals  have.  I'd  give  anything 
for  a  chance  to  be  somebody !  " 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette. 

"  I'd  give  anything  to  give  you  a  chance,  Bobby,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  you  can't !  "  she  laughed  hopelessly.  "  You're 
a  gentleman  and  I  .  .  .  Why,  I'm  just  the  daughter  of  a 
nester." 

"  And  maybe  that  very  combination  of  circumstances  gives 
me  my  chance  to  give  you  yours. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  take  you  east,  Bobby." 

"Yes,  but  there's  Alf.  I  couldn't  leave  him,"-— shaking 
her  head,  still  innocent  of  his  intent. 

Hilton  was  not  unprepared. 

"  But  if  he  had  a  comfortable  ranch,  with  good  buildings 
and  plenty  of  stock,  and  could  come  to  visit  you  at  times  ?  " 

"  But  he  ain't  got  any  of  them  an*  besides  — 

"  You  don't  mean  for  me  to  stay!  "  she  said  suddenly,  eyes 
incredulous. 


AN  INTERRUPTED  PROPOSAL        185 

"  To  stay,  Bobby.     To  stay  with  me,  forever  and  ever." 

She  started  to  laugh  but  checked  herself  and  leaned 
suddenly  toward  him,  her  lips  parted.  He  lifted  himself 
to  an  elbow  and  reached  out  for  her  hand. 

"Don't  you  understand,  dear  girl?  Don't  you  see  that 
I  love  you  ?  " 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  clasp  and  looked  away, 
brows  drawn  toward  one  another  a  trifle.  He  watched  her 
craftily,  timing  his  urging  to  her  realization. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  came  west,  guided  by  something 
bigger  than  my  own  reason,  directed  by  something  that 
regulates  the  loves  of  men  to  bring  them  to  a  good  end?  " 

She  looked  back  at  him  and  shook  her  head  slowlv. 

*'  I  never  thought  I'd  be  loved.  I  never  thought  you 
cared  for  me  that-a  way." 

"  Bless  you !  That  night  when  I  went  walking  into  your 
cabin  and  you  met  me  with  a  rifle  ready  I  knew  I  would 
love  you  and  that  you  would  love  me.  It's  one  of  the  things 
neither  of  us  can  explain,  but  I  was  sure  of  it,  sure  of  it. 
Didn't  you  guess?  Didn't  you  feel  it  deep  down  in  your 
heart  ? " 

"  No,  never.  Nothin'  good  had  ever  happened  to  me.  I 
didn't  calculate  anything  good  ever  would  happen.  The 
only  bein'  I  ever  thought  I'd  love  was  Alf  and  I'd  go 
through  fire  for  him.  .  .  . 

''But  this  .  .  .  it's  different.  It  ain't  like  that.  This 
is  somethin'  ...  I  don't  know  ..." 

She  rose  and  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast  as  though 
some  bursting  emotion  hurt  her.  Hilton  stood  before  her, 
his  breath  a  trifle  quick,  lips  parted  greedily.  His  particu- 
lar hour,  he  felt,  had  struck ! 

*'  One  of  the  reasons  that  has  made  me  love  you  has  been 
your  devotion  to  your  father.  Another  was  your  distrust. 
You  never  did  trust  me  at  first.  I  felt  that  you  were  keeping 
me  off,  holding  yourself  away  from  me,  Bobby.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  all  this  long  ago," —  which  was  the  truth  — '*  but 
I  wanted  you  to  be  sure  of  yourself ;  I  wanted  you  to  recog- 


i86  THE  LAST  STRAW 

nize  love  and  know  that  this  thing  between  us  is  the  lasting 
sort  " —  which  was  a  lie. 

"  The  lasting  kind  ?  "  she  queried.  "  You  love  me  ?  For 
good  ?     Honest  ?  " 

"  Honest !  "  he  promised,  taking  both  her  hands.  "  I  love 
you  with  all  the  love  a  man  can  give  a  woman !  I  love  you 
enough  to  devote  my  whole  life  to  making  you  happy.  I 
have  money.  We  can  go  where  we  please,  do  what  we 
please.  You  will  have  friends  and  respect.  You  can  see 
cities  and  the  ocean.  You  can  live  in  grand  hotels  and  eat 
wonderful  food  that  someone  else  has  cooked ;  you  can  hear 
music  and  go  to  theaters ;  you  will  have  flowers  and  auto- 
mobiles ;  you'll  see  California  and  Florida  and  Europe.  .  .  .'' 

"  And  because  you  love  ? "  she  demanded  as  he  put  his 
arms  about  her.  "  It's  because  you  love  me,  ain't  it?  If  I 
thought  ...  if  I  thought  it  was  for  anything  else  I'd  kill 
you."  Her  tone  was  even  enough,  her  voice  the  soft,  full 
voice  of  a  woman  'touched  by  love,  but  beneath  its  velvet  was 
a  matter-of-fact  certainty  that  caused  the  faintest  tremor  to 
run  through  his  limbs. 

They  looked  into  one  another's  eyes,  felt  each  other's 
breath  upon  their  cheeks,  the  one  consumed  by  passion,  the 
other  swept  upward  into  a  new  world,  a  new,  incredible  life, 
as  a  beautiful  hope  touched  her  heart.  They  did  not  see 
their  horses  standing  with  intent  ears  and,  as  they  were 
up  wind  they  did  not  hear  the  slight  sounds  of  another 
approaching. 

*'  Because  I  love  you,  Bobby!     Will  )^ou  come?  " 

''  And  I'll  be  your  wife  and  you  won't  be  ashamed  of  me 
.  .  .  ever?  " 

''  Never !  " —  in  a  tone  that  was  too  firm  for  conviction. 

"An'  Alf'U  come  to  see  us  whenever  he  wants  to?" 

''  Whenever  he  wants  to.  I>on't  you  believe  me  ?  Why 
question?" — hurriedly.  "Say  you  love  me,  now,  today, 
this  hour," —  straining  her  to  him.  "  Say  it  to  me,  Bobby ; 
say  that  you  love  me  as  I  love  you !  " 

His  eyes  burned  into  hers  and  he  closed  his  lips  to  press 


AN  INTERRUPTED  PROPOSAL        187 

them  on  hers,  to  touch  the  woman  of  her  into  being,  to  ac- 
complish the  end  he  sought. 

"  Oh,  Mister  Hihon,  I  — " 

Her  voice  had  the  quality  of  a  sob  and  he  waited  for  her 
to  go  on  before  he  sealed  his  tricky  pact  with  a  kiss,  but  as 
she  choked  a  crashing  of  the  brush  shocked  him  into  a 
realization  of  the  outside  world  and  a  resounding  voice 
cried : 

"  One  moment !     Just  one  moment !  " 

The  Reverend  Azariah  Beal  advanced  toward  them 
through  the  willows. 

Bobby  whirled  to  face  him  and  Hilton,  with  an  oath,  re- 
leased her. 

For  a  moment,  portentous  silence.  The  Reverend  halted^ 
plainly  confused.  Before  Hilton's  glare  and  the  girl's 
breathless  fury  his  eyes  wavered.  He  opened  his  lips  to 
speak  and  closed  them  helplessly.  Then  a  queer  glimmer 
crossed  his  face,  half  hope,  half  smile. 

He  reached  into  his  pocket,  brought  forth  a  fountain  pen, 
held  it  up  and  said: 

*'  One  moment  of  your  time  to  bring  to  your  attention  this 
article,  known  from  coast  to  coast,  indispensable  to  any 
man,  woman  or  child,  which  we  are  introducing  for  the 
purposes  of  further  advertising  at  a  trifling  price,  which  — " 

"  Who  the  devil  sent  you  here  ?  "  demanded  Hilton,  ad- 


vancmg. 


The  Reverend  lowered  his  hand  and  blinked  through  his 
spectacles, 

"  I  do  not  recall  that  I  came  from  that  black  deity,"  he  re- 
plied mildly.  "  My  feet  are  directed  from  Above," —  ges- 
turing.    "  I  have  been  called  upon  — " 

*'  Now  you're  called  upon  to  get  out.  Understand  ?  Get 
out !  " 

"  Brother,  is  it  possible  that  you  are  not  interested  in  this 
article?     Made  of  pure  India  rubber — " 

**  You  heard  me !     Get  out !  "  cried  Hilton. 

For  a  moment  the  Reverend  stood,  as  though  undecided. 


i88  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  I  Am  sorry,"  he  said,  *'  that  I  can  not  interest  you.  If 
not  today,  then  another  time,  perhaps  ?  A  splendid  gift  for 
a  lady^  my  friend,  a — '' 

"  Nobody  here  wants  to  Hsten  to  you.     Be  on  your  way !  " 

Sorrowfully  the  Reverend  replaced  the  pen  in  his  pocket, 
rattling  it  against  the  remainder  of  his  stock.  As  he  turned 
away  he  drew  them  all  out  and  stood  for  some  time  beside 
his  horse,  counting  them  carefully,  muttering  to  himself. 
He  looked  about  his  feet,  retraced  his  steps  to  where  he 
had  stood  in  his  attempt  to  make  a  sale,  scanning  the  ground. 

''  Can  it  be,"  he  asked  absently,  "  that  I  have  miscounted?  " 

He  gave  no  heed  to  the  two  who  watched  him  but  it  was 
a  matter  of  ten  minutes  before  he  was  finally  satisfied  that 
there  had  been  no  loss  —  or  that  nothing  else  would  be  lost 
that  day  —  and  rode  away. 

By  that  time  Hilton's  ill  temper  was  implacable  and  in 
Bobby's  face  was  a  half  frightened,  bewildered  look.  She 
turned  to  the  Easterner  with  a  questioning  little  gesture  but 
he  did  not  respond. 

"  He  spoiled  it  for  a  while,  Bobby,"  he  said.  "  Let's  ride 
back." 


CHAPTER  XX 


CONCERNING   SAM    MC  KEE 


WEBB  was  building  biscuits  and  Hepburn  was  slicing 
a  steak  from  the  hind  quarter  of  a  carcass  that  a 
few  days  before  had  been  an  H  C  steer.  McKee  entered 
with  an  armful  of  wood.  He  dropped  it  into  the  box  beside 
the  stove  with  a  clatter  and  went  out  again.  He  was 
whistling  a  doleful  little  tune,  as  a  preoccupied  man  will 
whistle.  His  gray  eyes  were  peculiarly  grim  and  when  he 
stopped  whistling,  his  mouth  set  into  determined  lines. 

"  What's  got  into  him?  "  Webb  asked. 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He's  changed  in  the  last  day  or  two.  Wouldn't  think 
he  was  the  same  man,"  Webb  went  on.  "  Do  you  think 
there's  a  chance  .  .  ." 

It  was  unnecessary  to  finish  the  question  for  there  was 
only  one  subject  that  these  men  discussed  which  called  for 
the  cautious  tone  which  Webb  had  adopted.  Hepburn 
chuckled  scornfully. 

"  Hell,  no !  "  he  said.  "  Sam's  the  last  one  to  double- 
cross  us,  'specially  when  Beck's  on  th'  other  side. 

"  Somethin's  got  into  him  all  right,  but  it  ain't  anything 
to  hurt  us.     He's  changed." 

"  You  know  how  he  used  to  be.  Dad,  kind  of  a  bully,  al- 
ways lookin'  for  trouble.  Well,  it  wasn't  that  he  was  quar- 
relsome like  most  mean  men  are.  It  was  because  he  was 
afraid  to  be  any  other  way.  That  was  what  made  him  abuse 
his  horse  that  time ;  the  pony  had  put  a  crimp  in  Sam  an' 
th'  only  way  Sam  could  work  up  his  nerve  to  get  aboard  was 
to  work  him  over  unmerciful. 

"  That  give  Beck  his  chance,  an'  he  sure  did  comb  poor 

189 


190  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Sam!  It  took  all  th'  starch  out  of  him,  but  that  wasn't  th' 
worst.  It  give  everybody  that  didn't  like  him  a  chance  to 
rub  it  in,  an'  they  sure  done  it !  Sam's  been  a  standin'  joke 
ever  since.  They  seem  to  look  for  chances  to  ride  him. 
Two-Bits  ain't  let  him  alone  a  minute  when  they  was  near 
together. 

"  Sam  used  to  swear  he'd  get  both  Two-Bits  an'  Beck,  but 
he  won't.  He  ain't  that  kind,  I  guess.  'Beck  knocked  what 
little  sand  he  had  left  all  out  of  him. 

''  Somethin's  changed  him  again,  though  .  .  ." 

"  You've  rubbed  it  into  him  pretty  strong  yourself,  Webb,'' 
Hepburn  reminded. 

*'  Different  reason."  Webb  waxed  philosophical. 
"  Wlien  a  man's  enemies  bother  him  it  only  drives  him  down ; 
that  is,  a  man  like  Sam.  But  when  his  friends  ride  him  it's 
likely  to  put  a  little  color  in  his  liver.  That's  why  I  keep 
after  him.  I  never  did  figure  he'd  try  to  get  Beck  in  an 
open  fight,  but  I  used  to  think  he  might  do  it  some  other 
way.     That's  what  I'd  like  to  see  him  do !  " —  darkly. 

"  Maybe  he  will.  Somethin's  changed  him  again,  Webb. 
I  tell  you  he's  been  goin'  around  today  like  a  man  whose 
done  somethin'  big!  It's  a  sort  of  ...  of  confidence,  you'd 
call  it." 

*'  Mebby  Hilton's  got  under  his  skin.  He  don't  like  Sam 
but  he  talks  a  lot  to  him  about  Beck,  quiet-like,  as  if  it 
wasn't  of  much  importance.  Still,  he  keeps  dingin'  away 
at  it." 

"  Like -he  does  to  us  about  things,  eh?  Always  sort  of 
suggestin'  until  you  go  do  somethin'  that  seems  like  a  good 
play  an'  then,  after  a  while,  wake  up  to  realize  that  he  was 
the  one  w^ho  started  you  on  your  way !  " 

Hilton  came  in  and  the  four  —  the  other  riders  were  on 
the  range  —  ate  their  meal  and  talked  lowly  of  the  war  they 
waged.  That  is,  Hepburn  and  Webb  talked.  McKee  lis- 
tened; neither  of  the  others  bothered  to  address  him  or  even 
consciously  include  him  as  an  auditor.  .  .  .  And  Hilton  lis- 
tened and  watched  McKee,  his  eyes  speculative. 


CONCERNING  SAM  McKEE  191 

"  vVith  th'  tank  gone  that  cuts  down  just  so  much  on  their 
range,"  Webb  said,  "  an'  it's  plain  they  don't  figure  on  usin' 
the  Hole  or  they'd  let  their  stuff  drift  in  there  as  they've 
always  done." 

''  You  don't  want  to  be  too  sure  that  their  stuff  won't  get 
into  the  Hole,"  put  in  McKee  with  a  nodding  of  his  head. 

"  I  s'pose  they  put  a  man  in  the  Gap  to  go  to  sleep,  did 
they?"  Webb  returned.  **  It  was  a  good  move  on  Beck's 
part.  I  wish  to  hell  they  would  get  by  and  perish  of  thirst. 
We'd  keep  'em  out  of  Cole's  water,  you  bet !  Beck's  too 
wise  to  give  us  a  chance,  though." 

**  Mebby  he  ain't  so  wise  as  he  thinks,"  McKee  insisted 
in  that  queer,  lofty  manner.  "  He  put  a  man  there  all  right, 
all  right,  but  everybody  ain't  been  asleep." 

Hepburn  started  to  say  something  to  Webb  but  was  ar- 
rested by  this. 

"  What  you  got  in  your  head,  Sam?  "  he  asked,  with  more 
intent  than  he  had  used  in  questioning  McKee  in  months. 

Sam  felt  himself  assuming  a  sudden  importance  at  this; 
his  manner  of  mystery  aad  confidence  had  caught  their  in- 
terest and  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  so  succeeded  for  long, 
the  first  time  he  had  really  been  an  insider  in  the  game  they 
played.  It  was  gratifying  to  know  facts  which  they  did  not 
know ;  he  cherished  this  superiority,  so  he  said : 

''  Never  you  mind  what's  in  Sam's  head.  You've  been 
figurin'  I'm  a  helpless  sort  of  waddie  for  a  long  tim.e  but  I 
guess  you'll  think  different  when  you  find  out  some  things 
I  know !  " 

Hepburn  urged  again  but  McKee  was  no  more  respon- 
sive so  the  older  man  put  McKee's  secretiveness  down  as 
pique,  concealing  nothing  of  value,  and  went  on  with  the 
talk. 

Later  in  the  evening  Webb  said : 

**  Sure  you  didn't  leave  anything  by  the  tank  that'd  give 
us  away  ?  " 

**  Think  I'm  simple  minded?  "  Hepburn  countered. 

"  It's  a  damn  good  thing  not  to  be.     That's  th'  first  place 


192  THE  LAST  STRAW 

they'll  ride  when  th'  round-up  starts  an'  as  soon  as  Beck 
hears  the  Tank's  gone  he'll  go  over  that  place  himself  with 
a  fine  tooth  comb.  If  he  could  hang  that  on  us  it'd  be  all 
he'd  need." 

"  He  can  go  over  it  with  a  microscope  but  he'll  find 
nothin'  i  " 

"  You  sure  he  will  ?  "  McKee  asked,  rather  breathlessly, 
his  eyes  lighted  with  a  peculiar  glow. 

"Will  what?" 

"  Go  there  to  look  it  over?  " 

Hepburn  snorted. 

"  That's  one  thing  you  can  be  sure  about  Beck :  he  watches 
details  an'  don't  let  nothin'  get  away  from  him.  He's  al- 
ways pryin'  into  things  himself;  he  ain't  satisfied  to  get  his 
information  second  hand.  A  thing  like  this,  which  has 
meant  a  lot  to  them  .  .  .  why,  he'll  investigate  it  until  he's 
found  somethin'  or  hell  freezes !  " 

McKee  sat  back,  staring  at  the  floor,  his  hands  limp  in  his 
lap.  Still  that  strange  light  showed  in  his  eyes  and  occa- 
sionally his  lips  moved  as  though  he  rehearsed  a  declaration 
to  himself.  .  .  .  And  Hilton,  stretched  on  his  bed,  watched 
McKee. 

After  a  time  Sam  roused  and  rolled  a  cigarette  with  fin- 
gers that  were  not  just  steady  and  sat  smoking  as  he  planned, 
already  triumphing  in  anticipation.  His  eyes  changed,  and 
the  lines  of  his  face  were  remoulded  .  .  .  and  Hilton 
w^atched. 

Late  that  evening  McKee  went  out  into  the  dooryard  to 
be  alone  with  the  memory  of  the  one  stroke  he  had  made 
and  to  continue  his  plans  for  the  master  blow  he  was  to 
make.  But  he  was  not  alone.  Hilton  followed  and  spoke 
quietly  over  his  shoulder,  saying: 

"  Yes,  Sam,  the  chances  are  that  he'll  go  to  the  tank 
alone." 

Whereupon  the  other  started  and  whispered  savagely: 

"  How'd  you  know  I  was  thinkin'  thatf  ** 


CONCERNING  SAM  McKEE  193 

Hilton  laughed  lowl}^  and  put  an  arm  across  Sam's  shoul- 
ders and  they  walked  at  length  in  the  darkness,  talking, 
talking.  .  .  .  The  Easterner  looked  close  into  McKee's  face 
and  flattei  *d  and  suggested  and  encouraged.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"  WORK   AMONG  THE   HEATHEN  " 

THE  chuck  wagon  had  gone,  followed  by  the  bed  wagon 
and  the  cavet,  the  last  made  up  of  one  hundred  and 
forty  saddle  horses,  stringing  along  the  road,  a  solid  column 
of  horse  flesh.  In  a  day  the  round-up  would  be  on.  Camp 
was  to  be  made  first  far  down  on  Coyote  Creek  and  the 
country  from  Cathedral  Tank  eastward  would  first  be  ridden. 

Outwardly  the  departure  was  not  so  different  from  others 
of  its  sort.  There  were  rifles  on  saddles,  to  be  sure,  but 
there  was  banter  and  fun.  Still,  a  spirit  prevailed  which 
told  that  the  men  were  not  wholly  concerned  with  the  nor- 
mal business  of  the  range.  There  were  other  things,  more 
grim,  more  serious,  than  gathering  steers  and  branding 
calves. 

H  C  hands  were  not  the  only  ones  who  rode  heavily 
armed.  There  were  others,  skulking  on  high  ridges,  watch- 
ing, waiting.  The  whole  country  knew  they  were  there. 
The  eyes  of  the  whole  country  were  on  the  factions.  The 
ears  of  the  country  were  strained  to  catch  what  sounds  of 
clash  might  rise.  For  the  coming  of  that  clash  was  sensed 
as  an  impending  crash  of  thunder  will  be  sensed  under  cloud 
banked  skies. 

"  I'll  be  joinin'  them  tonight  or  in  the  morning,"  Beck 
told  Jane  as  the  cavalcade  disappeared  down  creek.  "  I'm 
glad  there  are  things  to  hold  me  here  a  few  hours  longer 
because  I'll  be  gone  a  long  time  an'  I'm  jealous  of  the  days 
I  have  to  be  away  from  you." 

"  You'll  come  to  say  good-bye  ?  " 

"  If  I  have  to  crawl  to  you !  " —  as  he  gave  her  one  of  his 
lingering  kisses.     "  When  I  come  back  from  the  ride  there's 

194 


*'WORK  AMONG  THE  HEATHEN"      195 

something  I'd  like  to  talk  over  with  you  .  .  .  which  we  ain't 
mentioned  yet.'' 

'*  I'll  be  waiting  to  talk  it  over,  dear,"  she  whispered,  for 
she  understood. 

Not  long  after  Beck  had  ridden  away  the  Reverend 
stumped  down  from  the  corral  to  the  big  ranch  house  and 
rapped  on  the  door.  Jane  was  at  her  desk  and  looked  up  in 
surprise  for  it  was  the  first  time  the  elder  Beal  had  ever 
come  to  her  alone. 

"  I  come  to  ask  for  aid,  ma'am,  in  what  might  be  termed 
work  among  the  heathen,  though,  it  is  in  a  sense  the  task 
of  a  home  missionary." 

Jane  put  down  her  pen  and  sat  back  in  her  chair,  trying  to 
hide  her  amusement. 

''  Yes,  Reverend,"  in  her  crisp  manner  — "  I'm  interested." 

He  blinked  and  rattled  pens  in  a  side  pocket  of  the  rusty 
coat. 

"  I  trust  that  you  will  bear  with  me,  ma'am,  until  I  have 
finished.  I  have  been  moved  to  speak  to  you  for  long  but 
have  hesitated  because  it  is  difficult  to  present  the  matter 
without  intruding  on  privacies. 

"  An  unholy  love  is  being  hidden  in  the  solitudes  of  these 
hills,  a  man  who  is  at  heart  a  serpent  seeks  to  corrupt  the 
white  soul  of  a  child.  You  possess  a  knowledge  of  this 
man  which  may  hold  the  only  hope  of  salvation  for  the 
innocent." 

A  feeling  of  apprehension  swept  through  the  girl ;  with  it 
was  suspicion,  for  though  her  mind  easily  fastened  on  Dick 
Hilton  as  the  man  referred  to,  she  could  connect  him  with 
no  other  woman. 

"  I  trust,  ma'am,  that  you  will  be  charitable  in  your  esti- 
mate of  my  works.  It  is  no  more  possible  for  Azariah  Beal 
to  go  through  life  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  powers  of 
deduction  dormant  than  it  is  for  the  birds  to  refrain  from 
flight  or  the  fishes  from  swimming.  I  try  to  do  good  as  I 
go  my  way.  I  realize  that  it  is  not  in  the  orthodox  man- 
ner, that  my  methods  are  strange;  but  my  work  is  among 


196  THE  LAST  STRAW 

unusual  people  and  the  old  ways  of  accomplishment  will  not 
produce  results  any  more  than  the  old  standards  of  morality 
will  fit  the  lives  of  my  people. 

"  I  observed  this  man,  a  stranger  to  the  country,  in  town 
on  my  arrival.  When  I  reached  here  to  tarry  with  my 
brother  until  I  am  called  to  move  I  observed  you,  also  a 
stranger  to  the  frontier.  I  observed  other  things  which  you 
will  not  consider  prying  curiosity,  I  hope.  There  was  a 
connection,  a  logical  connection,  between  you  two  strangers : 
were  it  not  for  subsequent  events  this  observation  would 
have  remained  in  my  heart.  So  far  it  has,  but  now  I  must 
reveal  it  to  you. 

*'  You  are  the  only  individual  who  stands  between  Dick 
Hilton  and  the  ruin  of  Bobby  Cole !  " 

He  stopped  talking  and  rattled  his  pens  again.  The  ap- 
prehension which  had  possessed  Jane  passed  and  she  ex- 
perienced a  sharp  abhorrence. 

"  You  mean  that  he  .  .  ."  she  began  and  let  the  question 
trail  ofif. 

The  Reverend  nodded. 

"  Exactly.  He  has  charmed  her.  He  speaks  with  the 
cunning  of  a  serpent  and  she,  under  his  influence,  is  as  guile- 
less as  a  quail. 

"  He  cannot  be  driven  off  by  threats  because  he  is  not  that 
sort.  The  girl  cannot  be  convinced  of  his  wicked  purpose 
because  she  trusts  no  man  but  him.  H  the  afifair  proceeds 
she  will  pay  the  price  of  a  broken  heart  because,  in  spirit, 
she  is  pure  gold. 

"  He  might  protest  his  sincerity  to  m,en  of  this  country 
and  force  them  into  belief,  but  with  you  it  is  different. 
There  is  in  every  man,  no  matter  how  far  he  may  have 
fallen,  a  sense  of  shame.  He  can  bury  it  deeply  from  those 
who  do  not  know  him  but  to  his  own  kind  it  is  ever  near  the 
surface. 

*'  I  beg  of  you,  ma'am,  to  join  me  in  this  holy  cause  and 
dissuade  him  from  his  black  purpose,  if  not  by  an  appeal  to 
honor,  then  by  an  appeal  to  his  shame." 


"WORK  AMONG  THE  HEATHEN"   ly; 

Jane  rose. 

"  You  mean  that  he  has  been  making  .  .  .  making  love 
to  this  girl  ?     And  that  you  think  I  can  save  her  ?  " 

*'  It's  the  only  way.  She  will  not  listen  to  men,  she  will 
not  listen  to  you  because  she  considers  you  her  enemy.  He 
may  be  so  far  sunk  in  sin  that  he  will  not  heed  the  advice 
of  one  he  has  known  and  respected  and,  excuse  me,  loved 
.  .  .  after  his  manner  of  loving."  Jane  flushed  but  he  gave 
no  notice.  "  But  unless  I  attempt  to  bring  your  influence 
to  bear  upon  him  I  will  feel  that  I  have  not  answered  the 
call  to  duty." 

He  blinked  again  and  looked  at  her  with  an  appeal  that 
wiped  out  any  impression  of  charlatanry,  of  preposterous- 
ness  that  she  might  have  had ;  he  was  wholly  sincere. 

"  Why  ...  I  don't  know  what  I  could  say  .  .  .  what  I 
could  do." 

"Nor  I.  But  you  know  Hilton;  you  know  the  girl;  I 
have  made  you  familiar  with  the  situation.  I  rely  on  your 
resourcefulness.     May  I  bring  him  to  you?" 

''  Why,  he  wouldn't  come  here !  " 

The  Reverend  rattled  his  pens  and  said : 

"  I  think  I  might  persuade  him.  Have  I,  as  your  em- 
ployee, your  permission,  I  might  say,  your  order,  to  bring 
him  here  ?  " 

"Of  course.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do.  .  .  .  Ugh !  " 
She  shuddered  and  pressed  a  wrist  against  her  eyes.  "  It's 
beastly !     Beastly !  " 

The  Reverend  departed  and  throughout  the  day  Jane 
Hunter  could  think  of  little  other  than  the  situation  which 
he  had  outlined  to  her.  Her  wrath  was  roused,  replacing 
the  disgust  she  had  felt  at  first,  and  her  heart  went  out  to 
Bobby  Cole  with  a  tenderness  that  only  woman  can  know 
for  woman. 

She  tried  to  think  ahead,  to  consider  what  she  could  say 
or  do,  to  speculate  on  what  the  results  of  this  next  meeting 
with  Dick  Hilton  might  be. 

Evening  was  well  into  dusk  with  the  first  stars  pricking 


ti 


198  THE  LAST  STRAW 

through  the  failing  daylight  when  two  riders  came  through 
the  H  C  gate.  Dick  Hilton  rode  first  and  behind  him,  one 
hand  in  a  deep  pocket  of  his  frock  coat,  rode  the  Reverend. 

"  You  can  get  down  and  open  the  gate,"  the  Reverend 
said  and  Hilton,  sulkily  obeying,  led  his  horse  through. 
Now  what  ?  "  he  asked  in  surly  submission. 
Now  I'll  finish  my  errand  by  escorting  you  to  the  owner 
of  this  establishment." 

Hilton  led  his  horse  across  to  the  dooryard.  The  Rever- 
end dismounted  and  the  two  walked  down  the  cottonwoods 
to  the  big  veranda,  the  Easterner  still  in  the  lead,  the  other 
with  his  hand  in  his  side  pocket. 

Jane  saw  them ;  she  was  at  the  door. 
Good  evening !  "  said  Hilton  with  bitterness. 
In  accordance  with  your  orders,  ma'am,   I  persuaded 
this  gentleman  to  call,"   said   Beal,  almost  humbly.     "  I'll 
feed  his  horse  and  return  later." 

He  turned  and  hurried  up  the  path. 

Hilton  pulled  down  his  coat  sleeves  irritably  and  looked 
at  Jane  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  To  what  do  I  owe  the  .  .  .  the  honor  of  such  a  sum- 
mons ?  " 

"  Come  in,  Dick.  I  want  to  talk  to  you," —  keeping  her 
voice  and  expression  steady.  She  held  the  door  open  to  him 
and  he  entered,  his  mouth  drawn  down  in  a  sardonic  grimace. 
A  single  shaded  lamp  was  lighted  and  as  she  turned  to  him 
she  could  see  his  eyes  glittering  balefully  in  the  semi-dark- 


ness 


Rather  different  from  our  last  meeting,"  he  said  testily. 
"  Then  you  were  concerned  with  my  going ;  now  you  seem 
determined  to  have  me  here." 

"  Let's  not  discuss  the  past,  Dick.  I  called  you  here  for 
a  definite  purpose.     Can  you  guess  what  it  is  ?  " 

He  eyed  her  in  hostile  speculation. 

"  I  don't  see  where  anything  that  concerns  me  could  con- 
cern you  now.     That  is,  unless  you've  changed  your  mind." 

She  gave  him  a  wry  smile  and  a  shake  of  her  head. 


a 


WORK  AMONG  THE  HEATHEN"     199 


<< 


"  I  shall  never  change,  Dick.  It  was  no  interest  in  you 
that  made  me  send  for  you.  It  was  interest  in  the  well- 
being  of  another  woman." 

"  Oh,  another  woman !  And  who,  pray,  may  she  be?  " — 
frigidly,  face  darkening. 

Can't  you  guess  ?  Have  there  been  so  many  out  here  ?  " 
You  know  there's  only  one  woman  for  me,"  he  said  bit- 
terly, "  and  she  drove  me  off  like  a  thief  and  has  called  me 
back  as  though  I  were  a  thief !  " 

"  Perhaps  you  are." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

There  was  that  about  him  which  made  her  think  of  a  man 
cornered. 

"  I  have  called  you  here  because  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  you  are  trying  to  steal  the  heart  of  a  young  girl  —  of 
Bobby  Cole." 

He  laughed  unpleasantly,  but  there  was  in  the  laugh  a 
queer  relief,  as  though  he  had  anticipated  other  things. 

"  Now  who's  been  tattling  to  you  ?  " 

"  My  men  have  seen  you  come  and  go,  they  have  seen 
you  with  the  girl.  One  of  them  came  to  me  and  begged 
that  I  send  for  you  and  try  to  talk  you  out  of  this.  They 
know,  Dick.     These  men  understand  men  .  .  .  like  you." 

''  Because  they  see  me  with  her  and  because  I'm  not  con- 
sidered fit  by  you  to  stay  beneath  your  roof,  even  when  it 
is  night  and  storming,  they  think  I'm  damned  beyond  hope, 
do  they?  They  think  I'm  menacing  her  happiness,  do 
they  ?  " 

"  But  aren't  you?  "  she  countered.  "  I  know  her.  I  have 
talked  to  her  and  watched  her.  Dick,  she  is  a  lonely,  pa- 
thetic little  creature  with  the  world  against  her.  There  have 
been  just  two  things  left  in  her  life:  her  own  splendid  self 
respect  and  her  devotion  to  her  father.  Why,  she  hasn't 
even  had  the  respect  of  the  people  about  her ! 

"  And  now  she  is  facing  loss  of  the  biggest  thing  she  pos- 
sesses: the  loss  of  her  belief  in  herself,  for  you  will  de- 
stroy that  just  as  surely  as  you  force  her  to  listen  to  your 


200  THE  LAST  STRAW 

.  .  .  to  what  I   suppose  you  still  call  your  love-making." 

He  eyed  her  a  moment  before  saying: 

"  You  used,  at  least,  to  be  fair,  Jane ;  you  used  to  go 
slowly  in  judging  people  and  their  motives  and  usually  you 
were  more  or  less  right.  Have  you  put  all  that  behind  you  ? 
Does  the  fact  that  a  man  is  charged  with  some  irregularity 
convince  you  of  his  guilt  now?" 

"  Why  no.     But  knowing  you  and  knowing  her  .  .  ." 

**  Don't  you  think  it  possible  for  a  man,  even,  for  the 
sake  of  the  argument,  a  blackguard  like  me," — bowing 
slightly — "to  change  a  trifle?" 

He  put  the  question  with  so  much  confidence,  with  so 
much  of  his  old  certainty  that  it  checked  Jane. 

"  Why,  we  all  may  change,"  she  said  slowly. 
I    am    glad    you    will    grant    that    much," —  ironically. 

Think  back,  just  a  few  weeks,  and  you  may  recall  one 
somewhat  theatrical  statement  you  made  to  me  about  finding 
yourself  among  these  people.  I  thought  it  preposterous 
then  but  I  have  lived  and  learned;  I  know  now  that  you 
could  mean  what  you  said  then.  .  .  .  Jane,  I,  too,  have 
found  my  people  ...  at  least  my  woman." 

She  stared  hard  at  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  Dick  Hilton  ?  " —  very  lowly. 

**  As  much  as  I  have  ever  meant  anything  in  my  life !  " 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said,  more  to  give  her  time  to  think  than 
in  consideration  of  his  comfort.  Then,  after  a  moment: 
"  It  isn't  much  of  a  boast,  to  mean  this  as  much  as  you  have 
ever  meant  anything." 

"Then  need  we  talk  further?  You  ask  questions;  I  an- 
swer ;  you  do  not  believe.     Why  continue  ?  " 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  before  him. 

"  This  is  the  reason :  That  I  think  you  have  lied  to  me 
again.  I  don't  believe  you  are  sincere.  No,  no,  you  must 
listen  to  me,  now !  " —  as  he  started  forward  with  an  en- 
raged exclamation.  "  I  brought  you  here  to  make  what  is 
left  of  the  Dick  Hilton  I  once  liked  see  this  thing  as  I 
see  it." 


"WORK  AMONG  THE  HEATHEN''     201 

And  try  she  did.  She  talked  rapidly,  almost  hurriedly, 
carried  along  by  her  own  conviction,  made  dominant  by  it, 
sweeping  aside  his  early  protests,  forcing  him  to  listen  to 
her.  She  put  her  best  into  that  effort  for  as  he  sat  there 
with  his  cruel,  cynical  smile  on  her  she  realized  that  this 
was  a  task  worthy  of  her  best  mettle. 

She  sketched  Bobby  Cole's  life  as  she  knew  it,  she  argued 
in  detail  to  show  him  how  the  girl  had  never  had  a  chance 
to  taste  the  things  which  are  sweetest  to  girlhood.  She 
touched  on  the  incident  in  town  where,  in  desperation,  Bobby 
had  tried  to  force  the  respect  of  men  and  she  told  him  of 
the  defiance  with  which  her  own  advances  of  friendship  had 
been  met. 

Jane  was  eloquent.  For  the  better  part  of  an  hour  she 
talked  steadily,  occasionally  interrupted  by  a  skeptical  laugh 
or  a  sneering  retort,  but  she  persisted.  Hilton  listened  and 
watched,  eyes  hard,  mouth  drawn  into  forbidding  lines,  a 
manner  of  suspicious  caution  about  him,  as  though  there 
were  much  that  he  wanted  to  conceal. 

Finally  her  sincerity  had  an  effect  and  she  could  see  his 
cold  assurance  melting.  His  gaze  left  hers  and  a  flush  crept 
into  his  cheeks.     She  moved  quickly  to  sit  beside  him. 

"  Dick !  Dick !  For  the  sake  of  what  you  once  were, 
for  the  sake  of  what  you  still  can  be,  go  away!  H  you 
won't  go  for  the  sake  of  the  girl,  go  for  your  own  salva- 
tion !  " 

*'  It's  not  what  you  think,"  he  protested  feebly,  without 
looking  at  her.     *'  I'm  not  philandering.     I  — '' 

"  No,  Dick,  not  philandering,  because  that  is  too  gentle  a 
word.  It  is  something  worse,  something  darker,  which  will 
bring  more  shame  to  you  and  to  all  who  once  knew  and 
trusted  you. 

**  Don't  you  see  that  you're  playing  with  something  as 
delicate  as  a  mountain  flower?  Don't  you  see  you  will  crush 
it?  Because  this  girl  is  strong  of  body  and  thoroughly  able 
to  contend  for  her  own  position  with  muscles  and  weapons, 
don't  think  that  her  heart  can  be  treated  roughly.     It  would 


202  THE  LAST  STRAW 

wither  if  she  gave  it  to  you  and  found  that  you  held  it  of 
little  value." 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  on  the  level  with  her." 

*'  Would  you  marry  her?  " — leaning  closer  to  him  as  his 
manner  told  of  the  effect  her  pleas  were  having. 

"  Of  course." 

"  You'd  take  her  east,  to  your  friends  ?  " 

"  Why,  why  not?  " —  shifting  uneasily. 

"  Dick,  look  at  me  !  "  Tears  in  her  eyes,  she  put  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders  and  forced  him  to  turn  his  face.  "  You 
can't  mean  that?  I  can  see  you  don't.  Dick,  oh,  Dick! 
For  the  sake  of  all  that  is  good  and  fine  in  life,  for  the  sake 
of  the  manhood  you  can  regain,  don't  do  this  thing! 

''  I'm  asking  it  of  you.  Perhaps  I  have  little  right  to 
make  any  requests  of  you  but  in  the  name  of  the  love  you 
say  you  once  bore  for  me  try  to  look  into  my,  a  woman's 
heart,  and  see  what  this  thing  means.  I'm  not  trying  to 
make  it  difficult  for  you;  I'm  not  trying  to  interfere  and 
be  mean.  I'm  begging  you,  Dick,  to  give  her  up  and  if 
nothing  else  will  appeal  to  you,  do  it  for  my  sake !  " 

She  shook  him  gently  as  he  turned  his  head  from  her, 
humiliated,  shamed,  beaten.  He  was  convinced:  she  knew 
that  his  sham  was  broken  down,  that  his  purpose  was  clear 
to  her  and  the  conscience  that  remained  in  his  soul  tortured 
him. 

Jane  held  so  a  long  moment,  fingers  gripping  his  shoulders, 
appeal  in  every  tense  line  of  her  body. 

And  close  outside  the  window  another  figure  held  tense, 
watching,  holding  breath  in  futile  attempt  to  catch  the  low 
words  they  spoke.  It  was  a  slender  figure  and  had  ridden 
up  on  a  soft-stepping  horse,  dismounted,  slipped  over  the 
fence,  ran  stealthily  along  the  creek,  halted  in  the  shadow 
of  the  cottonwoods  and  then  crept  slowly  forward  until  it 
stood  close  to  the  shaft  of  yellow  light  which  streamed  from 
the  window.     There  it  stood  spying.  .  .  . 

''  You  have  said  that  you  loved  me,  Dick.  Do  this  for  me 
in  the  name  of  that  love !     I  am  asking  it  with  a  sincerity 


"  WORK  AMONG  THE  HEATHEN  "     203 

that  was  never  in  any  other  request  I  have  made  of  you." 

She  shook  him  again  and  slowly  he  turned  his  face  to  hers, 
showing  an  expression  of  weakness,  of  helplessness,  as  one 
who  turns  to  ask  humbly,  almost  desperately  for  aid. 

The  figure  out  there  started  forward  as  though  it  would 
leap  through  the  window,  making  a  sharp  sound  of  breath 
hissing  through  teeth,  in  fright  or  in  hatred.  The  move- 
ment was  checked,  for  the  gate  creaked  open,  the  scuffling 
boots  of  a  man  were  heard  on  the  path.  The  figure  skulked 
swiftly  along  the  house,  ducking  along  the  cottonwoods,  out 
toward  the  road  where  a  horse  stood  waiting. 

It  was  the  Reverend  coming  and  he  whistled  "  Yield  not 
to  Temptation/*  as  he  neared  the  house,  as  if  to  give  warn- 
ing of  his  approach.  Hilton  heard  and  looked  up  sharply 
and  a  glitter  of  rage  appeared  in  his  eyes.  He  shook  Jane 
Hunter  off  savagely  and  rose. 

"  I'd  let  you  make  an  ass  of  me !  "  he  cried  savagely. 
"  You  won't  believe  when  I  tell  you  the  truth.  .  .  . 

"  But  what  the  devil  should  I  care  ?  "  he  broke  oflf  shortly. 
*'  Whatever  I  do  and  where  and  why  is  my  own  affair ;  none 
of  yours,  though  you  try  to  make  it  yours,  try  to  judge  me 
as  you  judge  your  own,  new  friends,  probably. 

"  You  talk  of  the  man  I  once  was.  Well,  if  I've  changed 
in  your  eyes,  it  is  not  my  fault;  it's  yours,  Jane  Hunter, 
yours !  You'd  drive  me  on,  lead  me  on,  and  when  finally 
cornered  you'd  be  perfectly  frank  to  tell  me  that  you'd 
only  toyed  with  mc,  that  you  tolerated  me  because  you 
thought  you  might  have  to  use  the  things  I  owned !  " 
Not  that,  Dick !  You're  putting  it  all  wrong.  ..." 
Listen  to  me !  "  he  shouted,  quivering  with  rage.  "If 
I've  changed  it  is  you  who  have  changed  me !  If  life  means 
nothing  to  me,  it  is  you  who  have  made  it  so !  "  He  was 
towering  in  his  anger  and,  seeking  to  shift  responsibility  for 
his  own  rottenness  to  the  shoulders  of  the  woman  before 
him,  he  aroused  a  sense  of  injury  and  genuine  indignation. 
"  You  played  me  as  your  last  straw  as  long  as  you  dared 
and  now,  by  God,  when  I  go  my  way,  the  only  way  op'""  t 


204  THE  LAST  STRAW 

me,  when  I  try  to  redeem  a  little  happiness,  you  hound  me, 
try  to  shame  me  with  your  sham  morals !  " 

**Dick,  that's  not  true." 

"  It  is  true.     Why,  you  haven't  a  leg  to  stand  on,  you  — " 

His  storming  was  interrupted  by  a  rap  on  the  door  and 
he  turned  to  see  the  Reverend  standing  there,  battered  derby 
in  his  hands. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said  mildly,  "  but  the  gentleman's  horse 
is  fed." 

It  was  his  way  of  letting  Jane  Hunter  —  and  Dick  Hilton 
—  know  that  she  was  not  alone;  but  if  the  Reverend  had 
intended  to  stop  the  tirade  which  he  had  heard  from  outside 
he  did  not  succeed  for  the  Easterner  was  further  enraged 
at  sight  of  him. 

*'  I  suppose  this  is  part  of  your  plan !  "  he  snapped.  "  You 
found  out  that  it's  no  use  to  wheedle  me,  so  you've  had  your 
gun-man  come  to  drive  me  off  as  he  brought  me !  " 

"  Dick,  don't  be  silly !  You're  absurd.  A  gun.  The 
idea!" 

Hilton  laughed  tauntingly  and  said: 

"  He's  standing  there  now,  covering  me  with  a  gun ! 
Look  at  him."  He  pointed  to  the  Reverend's  pocket.  A 
hand  was  in  it  and  the  garment  bulged  sharply  as  though 
a  revolver,  concealed  there,  was  ready  for  instant  use. 
"  That's  how  you  treat  me ;  that's  how  you  got  me  here. 
God  knows  I  wouldn't  have  come  otherwise  if  your  exist- 
ence depended  on  it. 

"  This  man  met  me  on  the  trail.  He  said  you  wanted  to 
see  me.  I  consigned  him  to  the  Hell  from  which  he  tries 
to  have  sinners  and  he  covered  me  from  his  pocket  just  as 
he  has  me  covered  now  and  said  it  would  be  wise  for  me  to 
answer  your  summons. 

*'  How  else  do  you  think  he  brought  me  ?  "  he  demanded, 
w^heeling  to  face  Jane  again. 

The  girl  looked  quickly  to  Beal,  lips  parted  in  surprise. 

"  I  sent  Mr.  Beal  for  you,  yes,  but  I  said  nothing  about 


"  WORK  AMONG  THE  HEATHEN  "     205 

using  force  to  bring  you.  I  wouldn't  do  that.  I'm  sure 
there  is  some  mistake." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I'm  sure  there  is,"  said  the  Reverend,  bhnk- 
ing  and  withdrawing  his  hand  slowly.  "  I'm  a  man  of  peace. 
I'm  not  a  man  of  force." 

He  lifted  his  hand  clear,  the  ominous  bulge  in  his  pocket 
giving  way,  and  held  up  one  of  his  pens. 

"  One  dollar,"  he  said  rather  weakly  ...  as  though 
frightened,  or  vastly  amused. 

Standing  there,  looking  rather  blankly  about,  holding  that 
pen  in  his  hand  he  was  in  ludicrous  contrast  to  the  furious 
Hilton.  It  made  the  other  man  seem  absurd,  his  raging 
like  the  burlesque  of  some  clowning  actor. 

With  a  helpless,  choking  oath  Hilton  turned,  livid  with 
rage,  and  strode  for  the  doorway. 

"  For  the  last  time  I've  been  made  a  fool  of ! "  he  cried, 
and  hastened  up  the  path. 

They  heard  him  mount  his  horse  and  ride  away. 

Jane  was  too  busied  with  more  somber  thoughts  to  ap- 
preciate the  humor  of  the  situation ;  she  did  later.  Even 
had  she  been  able  to  give  attention  to  the  contrast  between 
Hilton's  rage  and  the  chagrin  which  followed  so  closely,  the 
change  in  the  Reverend  would  have  diverted  her  attention. 
He  stood  looking  at  her  with  grief  in  his  eyes  and  when  he 
spoke  his  voice  shook. 

"  I  feel  that  I  have  done  my  duty,  ma'am,  but  that  is  all 
Azariah  Beal  has  to  say  for  himself.  There  has  been  no 
result.  I  may  have  been  too  late  in  my  attempt.  Surely, 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done.  .  .  . 

*'  Nothing  more,  unless  you  may  succeed  in  ridding  your- 
self of  your  enemies." 

'*  Do  vou  think  that  would  have  an  effect  on  Bobby 
Cole^  "  ' 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"  You  and  she  have  something  in  common :  an  enemy." 

"  He  has  been  here  tonight  ?    You  mean  that  Hilton  is 


2o6  THE  LAST  STRAW 

my  enemy  in  the  sense  that  he  may  imperil  the  future  of  the 
H  C  ?  " 

"  The  same,  ma'am." 

"  Reverend,  it  is  Ukely  that  you  are  right.  I  am  beginning 
to  see  a  connection  between  factors  which  have  seemed  to  be 
vmrelated." 

He  started  to  speak  but  a  shout  checked  him.  They  Hs- 
tened  to  a  confusion  of  voices. 

"  Something's  wrong,"  Beal  said  and  stepped  to  the  ve- 
randa.    "  Why  .  .  .  somebody's  hurt !  " 

Jane  ran  to  the  doorway  but  he  had  already  started  up 
the  path.  She  followed  as  she  saw  a  close  huddle  of  men 
about  the  lighted  doorway  of  the  bunk  house  move  slowly 
in,  carrying  a  burden  gently  and  as  she  neared  the  building 
a  rather  tragic  quiet  marked  the  group. 

Nigger,  Two-Bits'  horse,  was  standing  saddled  in  the  path 
of  light.  Inside  a  man  was  lying  face  down  on  the  floor. 
The  Reverend  knelt  beside  him,  leaning  forward,  and  others 
stood  close,  silent  and  grave. 

The  prostrate  man  was  Two-Bits  and  his  shoulders 
dripped  blood.  As  Jane  became  a  part  of  the  group  he 
stirred  and  struggled  to  raise  his  head. 

"  What  is  it,  brother  ? "  Azariah  asked  gently,  turning 
Two-Bits  over  and  supporting  his  head.  "  Tell  us.  You're 
not  done  for.  It's  ripped  your  back  open,  but  that's  all. 
W^ho  was  it  ?  " 

The  other  looked  about  slowly  with  bewildered  eyes. 

"  From  behind,"  he  said  weakly.  "  They  got  me  from 
behind.  .  .  ."  His  gaze  wavered  from  face  to  face  and 
finally  rested  on  Jane's.     He  moved  feebly. 

"  A  big  bunch  of  your  cattle  must  be  in  th'  Hole,  ma'am," 
he  said.  "  There  ain't  .  .  .  any  water  there.  ...  I  was 
keepin'  'em  .  .  .  out  .  .  .  an'  somebody  got  me  from  be- 
hind. .  .  .  They  must  of  waited  ...  to  get  me  .  .  .  from 
behind.  .  .  .  And  the  only  water's  ...  in  fence.  .  .  . 

"  It  looks  like  ...  a  lot  of  trouble,  ma'am.  .  .  .' 

He  stopped  talking,  exhausted. 


» 


CHAPTER  XXII 


RENUNCIATION 


IT  looked  like  trouble  and  there  was  trouble. 
Beck,  with  the  Reverend,  Curtis  and  two  of  the  ranch 
hands  preceded  Jane  to  the  Hole  at  dawn  and  when  she  rode 
down  the  trail  she  saw  them  on  their  horses,  forming  a  little 
group  well  away  from  the  nester's  cabin. 

Her  cattle  were  there  and  the  fenced  area  was  fringed 
with  them  as  they  moved  back  and  forth,  snifhng  at  the  water 
they  wanted,  which  they  needed  and  which,  though  just 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wire  strands,  might  as  well  have 
been  days  away.  Inside  the  fence  grazed  Cole's  herd  with 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink. 

Tom's  face  was  troubled  as  he  rode  to  meet  the  girl. 

"  It's  serious,"  he  said.  ''  There's  enough  of  your  stock 
down  here  to  ruin  you,  ma'am,  unless  we  get  'em  out  to 
water." 

'*  Let's  take  them  out,  then !  " 

He  shook  his  head  skeptically. 

"  They're  in  bad  shape.  They're  crazy  wild  and  we 
haven't  got  enough  men  here  to  shove  'em  up  the  trail.  It's 
an  awful  job  with  quiet  cattle  because  they  have  to  go  in 
single  file  and  there's  no  drivin'  'em.  I  don't  dare  risk  taking 
these  through  the  Gap  and  around  to  water  the  other  way. 
Why,  Jane,  that's  forty  miles! 

"  It'll  be  another  day  before  we  can  get  the  boys  back  to 
help  get  'em  out  and  it  looks  like  a  heavy  loss  at  best  unless 
we  get  water.  There's  only  one  way  to  get  it  and  that's  to 
persuade  Cole  or  his  daughter  that  we'd  ought  to  have  it." 

"  They  must  have  water !  "  she  cried.  "  It's  inhuman  not 
to  give  it  to  them !  "  She  watched  a  big  steer  going  past  at 
a  rapid  walk,  eyes  bright  and  protruding  as  in  fright;  he 

207 


2o8  THE  LAST  STRAW 

bawled  hoarsely  for  drink.     "  Why,  Tom,  people  can't  re- 
fuse water  to  beasts  that  need  it. 

"  See !  There's  Cole  and  Bobby  now," —  pointing  toward 
the  cabin.     "  Come.     I'll  buy  water  if  necessary." 

She  spurred  her  horse  and  Beck  followed  at  a  gallop. 
When  he  came  abreast  he  looked  curiously  at  her  face.  Her 
jaw  was  tight  and  her  eyes  dark  with  determination.  This 
was  her  fight  and  she  was  thoroughly  aroused  to  it.  She 
asked  no  advice,  she  showed  no  hesitation ;  she  went  forward 
with  all  confidence,  certain  that  in  this  cause  which  involved 
not  only  the  loss  of  property  but  the  suffering  of  dumb  crea- 
tures she  could  have  her  way. 

A  hundred  yards  from  the  cabin  a  steer  thrust  his  head 
through  the  wire  strands  and  shoved,  heedless  of  barbs,  tan- 
talized by  the  smell  of  water.  Cole  shouted  with  his  weak 
voice  and  picked  up  a  stick  and  ran  toward  the  animal, 
brandishing  his  cudgel. 

Bobby  stood  watching  the  riders  approach. 
I've  come  to  see  you  again,"  Jane  said  in  brief  preface. 

This  time  it  is  an  urgent  matter."  She  dismounted  and 
faced  the  other  girl.  *'  My  cattle  are  here  and  they  need 
drink  very  badly.  You  have  all  the  water.  Will  you  let 
them  through  your  fence?  As  soon  as  they  can  be  moved 
we  will  take  them  out  and  they  will  bother  you  no  more." 

Bobby  eyed  her  with  loathing  but  it  was  not  as  she  had 
been  on  their  previous  encounter,  for  about  her  manner  was 
something  more  concrete,  as  though  she  cherished  a  definite 
grudge  this  time. 

'*  Is  your  memory  so  bad  that  you  don't  recollect  what  I 
told  you  before?"  she  asked  slowly.  ^' 1  told  you  once  to 
keep  away  from  us ;  I  tell  you  that  again.  This  is  our  range 
now ;  your  stock  ain't  got  any  rights  here." 

'*  I'll  grant  you  that  I  have  no  right  to  ask.  I  did  what  I 
could  to  keep  my  cattle  out  of  here.  The  man  I  set  to 
guard  the  Gap  was  shot  down ;  that  is  why  they  are  here  this 
morning ;  that  is  why  I  must  have  your  water,  because  it  is 
the  only  water  available. 


it 


RENUNCIATION  209 


<s 


I  am  willing  to  pay.  This  means  very  much  to  me. 
Won't  you  name  a  price,  give  me  water?  I  am  asking  it  as 
a  favor  and  will  be  willing  to  pay  for  that  favor." 

"Favor!" 

The  girl  shot  the  word  out  harshly. 

*'  Favor !  You're  a  sweet  one  to  come  askin'  me  for  a 
favor !  " 

A  fever  of  rage  rose  in  her  face  and  her  brows  gathered 
threateningly. 

"  Nothin'  we've  got  is  for  sale  to  you !  I  wouldn't  help 
you  if  I  could  save  your  outfit  by  liftin'  my  hand  .  .  .  an' 
if  I  was  starvin'  for  that  you'd  give  me  in  pay!  " 

Jane  was  nonplussed.  Bobby's  breast  rose  and  fell  quickly 
and  her  white  teeth  gleamed  behind  drawn  lips.  She  was 
the  catamount,  ready  to  fight ! 

*'  But  think  of  these  cattle!     They're  suffering — " 

"  Cattle !  You  ask  me  to  think  of  cattle  because  they're 
suffering  and  you'd  make  human  beings  suffer  from  worse 
things  than  thirst !  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you.  What  have  I  done  that  would 
make  people  suffer  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  you  don't  know?" — jeeringly.  "  I  s'pose  you 
don't  zvant  to  know  in  front  of  him," — with  a  flirt  of  her 
quirt  to  indicate  Beck.  "  I  wouldn't  either  if  I  was  in  your 
place,  you  —  sneak !  " 

*'  Sneak  ? "  Jane  repeated,  stung  to  open  resentment. 
"Sneak?" 

*'  Yes,  sneak.  You'd  run  us  out  of  this  country  if  you 
could,  but  you  can't.  You'd  lake  my  man  if  you  could  .  .  . 
but  you  can't !  " —  through  shut  teeth. 

"  Your  man  ?  " —  looking  at  the  girl  and  then  at  Beck  in 
bewilderment.     "  Your  — " 

"  Yes,  my  man !  Oh,  don't  think  I  don't  know.  I  saw  it 
all.  I  saw  one  of  your  hands  take  him  to  your  home  last 
night.  I  followed  him,  I  watched  through  your  window. 
I  seen  you  beg  with  him  and  plead  with  him.  I  know  what 
you  want.  ...  ; 


210  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Why,  he's  told  me  everything,  from  th'  first !  You  got 
him  to  follow  you  out  here,  you  got  mad  at  him  and  threw 
him  out  of  your  house  once.  Now  you  want  him  back. 
You  want  him  back.  I  suppose  while  he," — tilting  her 
head  toward  Tom  — "  is  away  on  round-up !  You  want  him 
back  when  you've  got  everything  you  want  and  he's  all  I 
got,  all  I  ever  had !  " 

Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes  and  her  voice  came  trembling 
through  trembling  lips.  Jane,  swept  by  confusion,  sought 
words  and  found  none.  It  was  preposterous !  And  yet  the 
very  accusation  degraded  her.  Drawn  into  a  quarrel  over  a 
man,  and  such  a  man ! 

"  You'd  take  this  claim,  if  you  could,  when  you've  got 
more  land  than  anybody  around  here.  You'd  take  my  man 
when  you've  got  lots  of  others  yourself.  You  must  have 
lots  like  you  got  lots  of  other  things.  Maybe  you  think  that 
by  takin'  him  you  can  drive  me  out  and  get  the  claim  that 
way.  Maybe  that's  your  reason,  you  .  .  .  you  ..."  She 
seemed  to  search  in  vain  for  an  expletive  that  would  convey 
her  contempt. 

'*  But  you  misunderstand !     You're  all  wrong." 

"  Wrong,  am  I  ?  Wrong,  when  you  put  your  arms  around 
his  neck  and  put  your  face  close  to  his  an'  make  him  look 
at  you  an'  beg  him  to  do  things  for  your  sake.  I  watched 
through  your  window  last  night.  I  heard  those  words, 
'  For  my  sake.'  You  said  'em.  I  suppose  that's  wrong,  is 
it?     I—" 

"  But  it  wasn't  that !     It  wasn't  what  you  think  it  — " 

"  I  s'pose  you  thought  he  wouldn't  tell  me,  but  he  did. 
He  won't  come  back  to  you.  You  couldn't  get  him  away 
from  me  !  " —  in  triumph. 

Her  manner  was  so  assured,  she  was  so  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  Hilton's  version  of  last  night's  encounter  that  Jane 
Hunter  was  at  a  loss  for  argument.  Impulsively  she  turned 
to  look  at  Beck,  as  for  suggestion,  and  what  she  saw  there 
stripped  her  of  ability  to  fight  back.  His  face  was  as  devoid 
of  expression  as  a  countenance  can  be,  but  his  eyes  chal- 


RENUNCIATION  211 

lenged,  accused,  bore  down  upon  her,  demanding  that  she 
explain ! 

He  demanded  that  she  explain ! 

He  suspected  her !  He  gave  credence  to  Bobby's  accusa- 
tion.    He  could  do  that ! 

A  word,  even  a  gesture,  would  have  cleared  the  situation 
but  his  look  struck  her  inarticulate,  immobile.  She  had  been 
so  confident  of  herself,  of  his  trust ;  and  now  he  had  grasped 
upon  this  monstrous  charge  and  held  her  to  answer. 

"  You  with  your  fine  notions,  your  money,  your  city 
ways ! "  the  other  taunted.  *'  You,  with  all  you've  got, 
would  take  the  only  thing  I've  got,  the  only  thing  I've  ever 
had! 

"  An'  now  you  come,  askin'  favors.  Favors  from  me ! 
Why,  all  I'll  do  for  you  is  to  run  you  out  of  this  country. 
I've  heard  what  they  call  me  here :  the  catamount.  I'll  show 
you  how  the  catamount  can  scratch  and  bite !  " 

It  swept  over  Jane  that  she  must  reply,  that  she  must  say 
some  word  in  her  defense,  that  she  must  say  it  now  .  .  . 
now  .  .  .  that  in  this  second  of  time  her  fate  swung  in  bal- 
ance, that  bitter  though  explanation  might  be  she  must  make 
it,  for  Beck  was  listening.  Beck  was  watching,  Beck  was 
doubting ! 

And,  as  she  would  have  spoken,  lamely,  but  with  enough 
clarity  to  absolve  her  from  suspicion,  Bobby  stepped  closer. 

"  You  take  your  men  an'  light  out ! ''  she  snapped.  *'  You 
keep  your  men  out  of  here  an'  your  cattle  away  from  this 
fence.  Th'  first  steer  that  breaks  through  '11  get  shot  down, 
th'  first  man  that  tries  to  help  'em  through  will  find  that  he 
needs  help  himself.  I  hate  you !  "  she  cried.  "  I  hate  you 
worse  'n  I  hate  a  snake  an'  I'll  treat  you  like  a  snake  from 
now  on. 

"  You  carry  that  idea  home  with  you  an'  you  carry  this 
...  as  first  payment,  to  bind  the  bargain !  " 

With  a  quick,  sharp  swing  of  her  arm,  she  whipped  her 
quirt  through  the  air  and  it  wrapped  about  Jane's  soft  throat 
with  a  vicious  snap. 


212  THE  LAST  STRAW 

She  stepped  back  with  a  choking  cry,  hiding  her  face. 
She  heard  Beck's  short,  "  That'll  do !  "  in  a  strange,  un- 
natural voice,  as  though  his  throat  were  dry.  She  heard  the 
Catamount's  contemptuous  sniff  and  her  hard,  "  Clear  out !  " 

She  found  herself  in  her  saddle  again,  riding  beside  Beck 
as  they  moved  toward  the  other  H  C  riders,  who,  dismounted 
and  seated  on  the  ground,  had  not  witnessed  the  dramatic 
parley  and  its  humiliating  climax.  She  was  confronted  by 
a  situation  which  clearly  spelled  disaster  for  her  ranch  un- 
less solved  and  solved  quickly  but  that  did  not  matter  now. 

She  had  been  whipped,  as  the  man  who  had  insulted 
Bobby  Cole  had  been  whipped.  Had  been  drawn  into  a 
brawl !  And,  far  worse,  she  had  found  that  the  man  toward 
whom  she  had  toiled  from  the  Jane  Hunter  that  had  been 
to  the  Jane  Hunter  she  had  one  day  dreamed  she  might  be, 
had  doubted  her ! 

He  was  talking  haltingly,  something  about  bringing  more 
men  to  shove  the  cattle  up  into  the  Coyote  Creek  country, 
but  even  through  her  confusion  she  realized  that  his  thoughts 
were  not  finding  words,  that  he  was  forcing  himself  to  talk 
of  those  things.  Her  heart  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  tell  him 
that  he  had  misunderstood,  that  her  encounter  with  Hilton 
was  not  occasioned  by  the  motive  Bobby  Cole  had  suspected. 
The  old  Jane  Hunter  would  have  done  so,  but  with  her  new 
strength  had  come  another  thing,  until  that  hour  hidden :  it 
was  pride,  a  pride  which  was  as  noble  as  her  love,  which 
would  permit  no  cavail,  which  would  not  stoop  to  conquer ! 

She  fought  it  down,  striving  for  clarified  thought,  feeling 
for  the  word,  the  brief  sentence  which  would  explain  away 
Beck's  suspicion  and  leave  that  pride  uninjured,  for  there 
must  be  such  a  v/ay.  And  while  she  fought,  blinded  by 
tears  and  confused  by  humiliation,  the  moment  of  oppor- 
tunity passed.     Beck  left  her. 

They  were  with  the  others,  who  grouped  about  her  fore- 
man, and  he  said : 

"  I  was  going  to  send  one  of  you  men  to  bring  a  dozen  of 
the  boys  from  the  wagon  to  help  save  this  stufif,  if  we  can, 


RENUNCIATION  213 

but  I've  changed  my  mind," — with  a  bitter  significance 
which  they  did  not  catch.  ''  I'm  goin'  myself.  Curtis, 
you're  in  charge.  Keep  your  head.  Keep  the  cattle  from 
breakin'  his  fence  because  they'll  shoot  'em  down  an'  if  they 
start  shooting  cattle  there'll  be  a  lot  of  us  get  shot." 

He  started  away  at  a  gallop  without  so  much  as  a  look 
at  Jane.  Impulsively  she  called  his  name  and  spurred  her 
sorrel  after  him.  He  set  his  horse  on  his  haunches,  wheeled 
and  waited  for  her,  face  white,  those  eyes  so  dark,  so  ac- 
cusing. That  look  checked  the  words  that  were  on  her  lips 
as  effectively  as  a  blow  on  the  mouth  and  he  spoke  first  as 
she  halted  beside  him: 

"  You  did  send  for  him,  I  take  it  ?  You  didn't  deny 
that." 

He  was  hard,  cruel,  brows  gathered,  and  the  storm  within 
him  stung  that  pride  of  hers  further,  roused  it  to  newer  life. 

**  Yes,  I  sent  for  him,"  she  managed  to  say,  "  but  Tom, 
won't  — " 

"  That's  all  that's  necessary  then,"  he  said,  and  was  gone. 

She  sat  on  her  horse  watching  him  ride  across  the  flat  for 
the  steep  trail  that  led  out  of  the  Hole  and  she  felt  that  all 
the  sweetness,  all  the  worth-while  quality  of  her  life  was 
riding  hard  behind  that  straight  figure.  A  bitterness  rose 
in  her  heart,  a  rebellion.  He  would  not  listen  to  her  and  she 
had  tried  to  speak ! 

Jane  did  not  consider  that  this  was  but  one  evidence  of 
the  greatness  of  the  love  of  such  a  man,  of  the  sacredness 
with  which  he  treasured  it ;  all  she  saw  was  the  distrust,  un- 
belief, and  after  a  time  she  rode  slowly  on,  watching  him 
become  a  fleck  on  the  face  of  the  mountain,  seeing  him  finally 
disappear  over  the  rim,  out  of  her  life,  it  seemed. 

With  leaden  heart  she  entered  her  house  and  sat  heavily 
in  the  chair  before  the  desk.  An  envelope  was  there,  ad- 
dressed to  her  in  Beck's  coarse  hand.  She  tore  it  open  with 
unsteady  fingers. 

The  little  gold  locket  which  had  been  warmed  first  by 


214  THE  LAST  STRAW 

her  heart,  then  by  Beck's,  which  had  been  her  talisman  for 
months,  sHpped  into  her  pahii.  With  tear-dimmed  eyes  she 
looked  at  it  and  then  turned  to  the  letter,  reading: 

"  It  is  likely  that  you  need  your  luck  worse  than  I  do  so  I 
am  returning  your  gift.  I  would  go  away  from  your  outfit 
now  but  if  I  did  they  would  say  that  they  drove  me  out  as 
they  have  said  they  would  do.  My  reputation  is  all  I  have 
left  now  and  I  would  like  to  keep  that  because  a  man  must 
have  something. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  love  you  in  the  first  place  as  you  may 
recall  but  I  guess  I  was  pretty  weak  for  a  man.  I  told  you 
once  that  there  were  things  I  did  not  understand  about  you 
and  I  guess  the  way  you  think  about  men  is  one  of  them. 
I  wanted  to  drive  him  out  of  the  country  and  you  would  not 
let  me.  I  waited  a  long  time  today  for  you  to  deny  what 
the  Cole  girl  said  and  you  did  not  do  it.  I  was  pretty  mad 
when  I  left  you  but  I  realize  now  it  is  all  my  fault.  I  took 
a  chance  which  is  not  the  way  to  do  and  now  I  am  paying 
for  it.     Well,  I  am  able  to  pay. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  answer  this  and  will  not  try  to  talk 
to  me  again  unless  on  business.  I  do  not  blame  you.  I 
blame  myself  but  I  do  not  want  to  talk  about  it.  I  will  take 
good  care  of  your  cattle  and  your  men  because  that  is  my 
job.  I  will  run  these  men  out  of  this  country  and  then  if  I 
am  able  to  resign  I  will. 

"  Respectfully, 

^'ToM  Beck." 

She  put  down  the  letter,  feeling  queerly  numb.  She  ex- 
perienced no  particular  resentment  because  she  could  well 
see  how  her  failure  to  speak  at  the  proper  moment  had  con- 
demned her  in  Beck's  eyes ;  her  sensation  was  of  one  who 
has  failed  in  a  crisis.  Bobby  Cole  had  dominated  her,  had 
swept  her  off  her  feet,  had  given  her  that  depressing  feeling 
of  inferiority  again  and  before  her  lover's  eyes;  it  had 
shaken  her  assurance,  made  her  question  the  strength  of 


RENUNCIATION  215 

which  she  had  been  so  certain  in  the  last  weeks !  It  was 
that  which  hurt  her  far  more  than  the  stinging  welt  about 
her  throat  where  the  lash  had  bitten  her  flesh. 

She  inquired  for  Two-Bits,  learning  that  the  doctor  had 
left  him  with  the  assurance  that  his  recovery  would  not  be 
unduly  delayed.  She  ate  her  dinner  abstractedly.  In  all 
she  did  she  moved  as  one  who  is  only  partly  alive ;  a  portion 
of  her  body,  even,  seemed  insensate,  while  her  mind  was 
dead.  A  dull  ache  pervaded  her,  an  emptiness,  for  some- 
thing vastly  important  was  gone  and  she  was  without  re- 
source to  call  it  back. 

The  Reverend  came  and  went,  taking  beds  on  pack  horses 
and  when  Jane  saw  him  departing  she  laughed  rather  weakly 
to  herself. 

It  was  so  simple !  There  was  the  agency  which  could 
bridge  this  chasm  and  while  so  doing  could  save  the  pride 
which  was  creating  the  conflict  within  her. 

The  Reverend  knew  her  motive  in  sending  for  Hilton. 
He  could  and  would  make  Beck  aware  of  what  had 
transpired.  She  even  thought  of  writing  Tom  a  note,  some- 
thing as  follows : 

"  I  am  terribly  hurt  but  in  a  way  it  is  of  my  own  doing. 
I  have  just  one  thing  to  request:  Ask  the  Reverend  how 
Dick  Hilton  came  to  be  here." 

But  she  had  no  one  to  send  with  it  and  Beck  would  be 
back  on  the  morrow  with  the  men  to  move  the  thirst  tortured 
cattle.  Besides,  there  must  be  another  way  than  the  des- 
patch of  such  a  message.  That  was  too  cold  and  formal. 
It  would  bring  him  humbly  to  her  but  she  knew  how  he 
would  suffer  when  his  pride  was  hurt;  and  such  a  thing 
would  do  no  less  than  hurt  his  pride.  She  would  make  it  as 
easy  as  possible. 

A  let-down  came  and  she  cried  and  when  she  slept  that 
night  her  dreams  were  not  distressing. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE   reverend's   STRATEGY 


THROUGHOUT  the  day  the  sun  beat  into  the  caiion, 
its  heat  reHeved  by  rare  breezes  of  brief  duration. 
What  wind  did  come  raised  swirls  of  dust  and  rustled  wilted 
foliage,  for  the  country  had  become  ash  dry. 

The  cattle,  most  of  them  on  their  fourth  waterless  day, 
bawled  dismally,  a  thirsty  chorus  rising  as  the  day  aged. 
They  did  not  eat;  they  wandered  rapidly  about  seeking 
moisture.  Those  spots  of  the  creek  bed  which  showed  damp 
above  and  below  Cole's  fence  were  tramped  to  powder  by 
uneasy  hoofs  and  a  narrow  area  outside  the  fence  was  cut 
to  fluff  by  the  restless  wanderings  of  the  suffering  steers. 

As  afternoon  came  on  they  abandoned  their  futile  search 
for  unguarded  drink  and  clung  closer  to  the  wire  barrier, 
snuffing  loudly  as  their  nostrils  drank  in  the  smell  of  water 
as  greedily  as  their  throats  would  have  swallowed  the  fluid 
itself.  Their  eyes  became  wider,  wilder,  and  the  bawling 
was  without  cessation.  Flanks  pumped  the  hot  air  into  their 
bodies  in  rapid  tempo  and  slaver  hung  from  loose  chops. 
The  herd  was  in  desperate  condition. 

Now  and  then  a  big  beefer  would  rush  the  fence  as  if  to 
tear  his  way  through  but  the  new  wire  and  solid  posts  al- 
ways flung  them  back.  Again,  another  would  push  his  head 
tentatively  between  the  strands  and  attempt  entrance  by 
gentler  methods,  but  always  they  were  driven  back  either 
by  one  of  the  H  C  riders  or  by  Cole  himself. 

By  the  time  the  sun  was  half  way  to  the  horizon  the  steers 
were  moving  in  a  compact  mass  back  and  forth  along  the 
fence,  snuffing,  crying,  sobbing  in  dry  throats,  bodies  grow- 
ing more  gaunt  hourly  as  frenzy  added  its  toll  to  physical 

suffering. 

216 


THE  REVEREND'S  STRATEGY        217 

The  bawling  became  a  din.  Big  steers  shook  their  heads 
and  hooked  at  one  another  groggily.  The  first  one  went 
down  and  could  not  rise  alone ;  the  men  "  tailed  "  him  up 
and  worked  him  to  shade,  where  he  sank  to  his  side  again, 
panting,  drooling  and  silent. 

**  Damn  an  outfit  like  that ! "  growled  Curtis,  looking 
across  the  bunch  to  Cole,  who  stood  staring  back. 

"  There's  goin'  to  be  hell  a-poppin'  here,"  commented  one 
of  the  men.  '*  They're  waitin'  for  trouble  an'  you  can't  pre- 
vent 'em  havin'  it — " 

"  Look  at  that !  " 

A  half  dozen  steers,  surging  against  the  fence,  put  their 
combined  weight  on  a  panel  and  the  post  gave  with  a  snap. 

Bobby  ran  forward,  brandishing  a  club,  and  drove  them 
back  as  they  floundered  in  the  sagging  wire,  heedless  of 
barbs,  e3^es  protruding  with  want  of  the  drink  that  dilated 
nostrils  told  them  was  near. 

After  he  had  propped  the  post  up  again  the  nester  shook 
his  fist  at  Curtis  and  shouted : 

"  I'll  protect  my  property !  You  -can  protect  yourn  if  you 
will.  Th'  next  critter  that  breaks  my  fence  gits  lead  in  his 
carcass !  " 

He  slouched  back  to  the  cabin  and  came  out  a  moment 
later  with  a  rifle.  Seating  himself  on  a  stump  he  crossed  his 
knees  and  with  the  weapon  across  his  lap  sat  waiting. 

"  We'll  bunch  'em  so  we  can  make  a  show  at  holdin'  'em 
tonight,"  Curtis  said.  "  That'll  save  time  in  th'  mornin' 
.  .  .  an'  we'll  need  all  our  time." 

Forthwith  he  and  the  others  began  gathering  the  suffering 
stragglers  in  a  loose  bunch. 

The  Reverend  came  riding  across  the  flat  before  this  was 
completed.  His  face  was  serious  and  as  he  came  close  to  the 
herd  and  saw  the  condition  of  the  cattle  he  shook  his  head 
apprehensively. 

"  I  fear,  brother,  that  by  another  day  there'll  be  little 
strength  in  those  bodies  to  get  'em  up  to  open  water,"  he 
said  to  Curtis. 


2i8  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  It'll  be  the  devil's  own  job  for  sure!  It'll  take  twenty 
men  to  move  'em  and  if  we  don't  lose  half  we'll  be  Incky. 

"If  that  old  cuss  'uld  let  'em  water  once  it'd  be  a  cinch, 
but  he's  a  bad  Piordbre;  he  won't.  There's  something  back 
of  this,  Reverend/' 

Beal  scratched  his  chin  and  blinked  and  looked  across  to 
where  Cole  sat.  One  of  his  Mexicans  also  was  armed  and 
had  taken  up  his  position  further  down  the  fence. 

"  So  it  would  appear,"  he  replied.  "  As  Joshua  said  to 
Moses,  '  There's  a  noise  of  war  in  the  camp.' 

'*  I  see  a  relationship  between  the  smiting  of  my  beloved 
brother  and  the  refusal  of  this  outfit  to  grant  water. 

*'  Oh,  another  watcher !  " 

He  indicated  Pat  Webb  who  evidently  had  gained  the 
Cole  ranch  by  a  circuitous  route  and  had  taken  up  his  posi- 
tion within  the  fence,  armed  with  a  rifle. 

Night  came  on  with  a  dry  wind  in  the  trees  on  the  heights. 
Its  draft  did  not  reach  the  Hole  but  the  sound  did  and  that 
uneasy,  distant  roar  served  to  intensify  the  distress  of  the 
cattle. 

Beds  were  made  on  a  knoll  not  far  from  the  bunched 
steers  and  the  Reverend  was  the  first  to  rest,  while  the  others, 
singing,  whistling,  slapping  chaps  with  quirts  rode  round 
and  round  the  herd  keeping  them  away  from  the  fence  to 
give  the  riflemen  no  opportunity  to  shoot.  Azariah  did  not 
sleep  but  rolled  uneasily  on  his  tarp  watching  the  bright, 
dry  stars,  muttering  to  himself  now  and  then. 

Once  he  got  up  and  fussed  about  his  blankets  and  Curtis, 
riding  by,  stopped. 

"  No,  I  can't  rest,"  the  Reverend  replied  to  his  query. 
*'  I  believe  I  have  lost  one  pen.  .  .  . 

*'  By  the  way,  brother,  if  these  were  your  cattle  how  many 
head  would  you  give  just  to  get  them  to  water  tonight?" 

"  I'd  give  several,"  Curtis  answered  bitterly.  "  Yes, 
I'd  give  a  good  many  and  look  at  it  as  a  good  investment. 
Without  water  we're  goin'  to  make  lots  of  feed  for  buz- 
zards an'  coyotes,  tryin'  to  make  up  that  trail  tomorrow !  " 


THE  REVEREND'S  STRATEGY        219 

"  A  good  many.  ...  A  good  many,"  the  clergyman  mut- 
tered as  Curtis  rode  on.  "  She  is  for  peace,  but  when  she 
speaks,  they  are  for  war,"  he  paraphrased  the  Psalm. 

"  'They  that  war  against  thee  shall  be  as  nothing.'  .  .  .  An 
investment  ...  a  good  investment.  .   .  ." 

He  sat  hunched  on  his  bed  for  some  time,  whispering  over 
and  over.  .  .  .  '*  A  good  investment  .  .  .  investment.  ..." 

Then  suddenly  he  rose  and  pawed  about  him  for  a  dried 
bough  of  cedar  which  he  had  cast  aside  to  make  his  bed. 
With  trembling  fingers  he  sought  a  match,  struck  and  ap- 
plied it.  • 

The  flame  licked  up  the  tinder  and  burst  into  a  brilliant 
torch.  The  bawling  of  the  cattle  cut  off  sharply.  Whites 
of  terrified  eyes  showed  for  an  instant  and  then  vanished  as 
heads  were  quickly  turned  away. 

The  herd  stirred,  like  a  concentrated  mass,  body  crowding 
body;  it  swayed  forward,  a  rumbling  of  hoofs  arose.  And 
from  the  far  side  came  the  shrill  yipping  of  horsemen  as 
they  broke  into  a  gallop  and  sought  to  set  the  cattle  milling. 

Futile  effort!  Driven  mad  by  thirst  it  would  have  re- 
quired a  much  less  conspicuous  disturbance  than  that  flare 
of  fire  to  start  the  wild  rush.  With  a  roll  of  hoofs,  a  sicken- 
ing, overwhelming  sound,  heads  down,  crowded  together  into 
a  knitted  body  of  frightened  strength  the  bunch  was  in  full 
stampede ! 

Down  the  far  side  rode  Curtis,  high  in  his  stirrups,  his  re- 
volver spitting  fire  into  the  air.  A  big  white  steer  charged 
straight  at  his  horse  like  a  blinded  thing  and  the  animal  car- 
ried his  rider  to  momentary  safety  with  a  hand's  breath  to 
spare. 

On  another  flank  of  the  herd  another  rider  charged  in  and 
shouted  and  shot  and  swung  off.  There  was  no  time ;  there 
was  no  room !  It  was  less  than  a  hundred  yards  to  the 
fence  and  to  be  caught  between  its  stout  strands  and  those 
charging  heads  meant  terrible  death.  Curtis'  warning  cry 
cut  in  above  the  fury  of  the  flight  as  he  doubled  back 
toward  safety. 


220  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Within  the  fence  were  shouts.  Figures  sprang  to  out- 
line in  the  darkness.  The  first  steer's  shoulders  struck  the 
wire,  the  fence  held,  threw  him  back  and  then,  driven 
forward  again  by  oncoming  numbers  the  creature  went 
through,  torn  and  raw,  through  a  torn  and  tangled  barrier. 
There  was  a  creaking  strain  of  wire  for  rods,  a  snapping 
of  stout  posts  and  then  orange  stabs  out  of  the  night.  .  .  . 
Two  .  .  .  four  .  .  .  five,  and  the  sound  of  rifle  shots 
pricked  through  the  background  of  heavier  sounds. 

A  steer  bawled  once,  its  voice  pitched  high,  and  went 
down.  Another  dropped  beneath  mincing  hoofs  without  a 
sound.  From  their  path  ran  the  riflemen,  desperate  in  their 
fright,  heedless  of  damage  done  property  or  rights.  Over, 
under  and  through  the  fence  went  the  cattle,  pouring  across 
the  cleared  land,  crowding,  snorting,  gaining  momentum  with 
each  stride.  On  across  the  flat,  on  down  the  steep  bank 
of  the  creek,  on  into  the  water  that  sloshed  about  their 
knees.  .  .  . 

And  there,  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  their  panic  de- 
parted, for  the  need  of  that  water  dissipated  their  fright. 
Noise  of  the  flight  subsided  and  into  the  night  rose  the 
greedy  sound  of  their  guzzling  as  the  water  which  Cole 
had  fenced  and  sought  to  hold  was  gulped  down  the  parched 
throats  of  H  C  cattle. 

Curtis  rode  up  at,  a  gallop,  drawing  his  horse  to  such  a 
quick  stop  that  his  hoofs  scattered  dirt  over  Azariah. 

"What  th'  hell?"  he  began. 

"  I  found  it !  "  cried  the  Reverend  in  exultation,  holding 
up  a  fountain  pen.  "  Must  have  dropped  out  when  I  took 
oflF  my  coat — " 

''  But  look  what  youVe  done !  "  cried  the  other.  "  They 
knocked  four  steers  dead  as  the  Populist  party !  " 

Azariah  looked  up  at  him,  the  shrewdness  in  his  face  cov- 
ered by  darkness,  but  his  voice  was  guile  itself. 

*'  A  small  investment,  brother,  a  good  investment.  Per- 
haps a  parable  is  writ  this  night.  ...  A  pillar  of  fire,  a 
smiting  of  the  rock?" 


THE  REVEREND'S  STRATEGY       221 

Curtis  whistled  lowly. 

"Reverend,  you  planned  it  all  out?" 

"  It  is  not  given  to  me  to  plan ;  I  am  guided  by  the  spirit 
of  righteousness !  Besides,  those  who  lack  wisdom  are  the 
only  ones  who  divulge  their  innermost  thoughts,  brother. 
I  found  a  way  out  of  Egypt  for  the  cattle,  as  't  were.  Re- 
member, brother,  the  way  of  the  Lord  is  strength !  " 

They  had  not  heard  Bobby  Cole  running  through  the 
brush  toward  them  but  as  the  Reverend  stopped  she  stepped 
between  him  and  Oliver's  horse. 

"  So  that's  it !  "  she  hissed.  "  So  you're  th'  one  to  blame  1 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  told  your  boss  this  mornin',  that  I'll  run 
you  out  of  the  country  if  it's  th'  last  thing  I  do,  you  Bible 
talkin'  rat! 

"  This  ain't  th'  first  thing  I've  got  against  you," —  darkly. 
"  I  might  've  forgot  th'  other  because  she  was  to  blame 
for  it,  but  I've  heard  what  you  just  said  an'  I  won't 
forget  this !  And  don't  think  I'm  th'  only  one  who'll  keep 
it  in  mind ! 

"  Why,  you'll  be  run  out  of  this  country  like  a  snake 
'uld  be  chased  out  of  a  cabin !     Remember  that !  " 

For  a  moment  she  stood  confronting  him  in  the  darkness 
and  though  features  were  not  clearly  distinguishable  they 
could  see  by  the  poise  of  her  figure  that  those  were  no  idle 
threats.  Then  she  went  as  quickly  as  she  had  come,  leaving 
the  Reverend  scratching  his  chin  and  Curtis  whistling  softly 
to  himself. 

A  woman  possessed  of   the   devil !  "   said   Beal   softly. 
Yeah.     Or  three  or  four,"  commented  the  other. 

"  Yesterday  I  sought  to  save  her  soul  and  tomorrow  I 
must  seek  to  save  my  own  skin !  " 

There  was  no  more  shooting  because  H  C  cattle  were 
mingled  with  Cole's.  Curtis  parlayed  vnth  the  nester  who 
made  whining  threats  of  a  suit  for  damages.  When  Curtis 
returned  to  the  beds  for  the  remainder  of  the  night  the 
Reverend  was  not  there. 

"  Dragged  it  for  the  ranch !  "  he  chuckled. 


222  THE  LAST  STRAW 

So  he  thought.  The  Reverend  had  dragged  it,  but  not 
for  the  H  C  or  any  other  nearby  stopping  place.  Though 
Beal  did  not  know  all  that  transpired  to  bring  about  the 
ruin  of  Jane  Hunter  he  knew  enough  to  realize  that  he  had 
made  one  determined  enemy  that  night,  that  to  make  one 
was  to  make  many  and  that  Bobby  Cole's  inference  that  he 
had  plunged  himself  into  disfavor  with  others  was  no 
empty  warning.  Azariah  Beal  was  not  a  coward  but  he 
was  discreet.  The  risk  of  remaining  was  not  justified  by 
the  end  he  might  serve  and  now  he  sought  sanctuary  in 
distance. 

Tom  Beck  led  the  riders  from  the  wagon  into  the  Hole 
at  dawn.  Gathering  and  moving  the  refreshed  cattle  up  the 
trail  was  a  difficult  task  but  it  was  accomplished  without 
further  loss,  a  fact  which  satisfied  the  men.  They  reached 
the  ranch  on  their  way  back  to  the  round-up  camp  in  late 
afternoon. 

News  of  the  saving  stampede  had  been  carried  ahead  and 
Jane  realized  that  one  difficulty  had  been  surmounted  and 
that  the  financial  ruin  which  confronted  her  yesterday  was 
no  more.  However,  removal  of  that  distraction  allowed 
her  mind  to  concentrate  on  the  greater  difficulty :  the  breach 
which  separated  her  from  Tom  Beck.  Only  one  way 
seemed  open:  to  prevail  upon  the  Reverend  to  explain  mat- 
ters, and  that  way  was  closed  when  a  passing  cow-boy  de- 
livered her  a  note,  written  hastily  on  rough  paper.  She 
read: 

"  The  call  has  come  and  my  feet  are  turned  toward  a  far 
country. 

"  My  arm  has  been  lifted  for  you ;  though  I  am  no  longer 
in  your  presence  my  prayers  will  continue  to  be  lifted  in 
your  behalf. 

"  Respy., 

"A.  Beal." 

Azariah  had  served  the  H  C  well.     But  for  his  strategy 


THE  REVEREND'S  STRATEGY        223 

she  might  even  then  be  suffering  from  a  loss  which  would 
doom  the  ranch.  And  yet  he  could  have  served  her  in- 
finitely better  by  staying  on,  by  untangling  the  snarl  which 
circumstances  had  made  in  her  affairs. 

There  was  just  one  remaining  course  to  follow,  she  told 
herself.  This  was  to  go  to  Tom  and  explain  everything. 
Then  up  rose  her  pride  and  made  denial.  She  could 
not  do  that!  If  his  love  would  not  bear  up  under  doubt, 
then  she  must  keep  her  pride  intact,  for  that  was  all  she 
possessed.  Torn  between  desire  to  fling  herself  upon  him 
and  sob  out  the  w^hole  story  and  to  maintain  her  stand 
until  he  should  be  proven  wrong  and  come  to  her  con- 
trite, she  dallied  with  the  decision  until  the  riders  had 
come  and  gone. 

She  watched  Beck,  riding  at  a  trot  down  the  road,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left.  She  could  not  know  that  a 
similar  struggle  tortured  him.  ''  Turn  back !  "  one  voice  in 
his  heart  commanded.  **  Seek  her  out  and  question  and 
question  until  you  know  w-hy ;  if  it  is  the  worst,  if  she  has 
been  hiding  a  secret  affection  from  you,  beg  her  to  turn  from 
it,  to  come  to  you ;  offer  her  your  all,  your  pride,  your  life, 
if  need  be.     She  is  all  that  living  holds  for  you !  " 

And  then  that  other,  sterner  self,  which  said  over  and 
over:  "That  cannot  be!  If  there  is  that  in  her  heart 
which  must  be  hidden  from  you,  draw  back  now  and 
save  all  that  is  left  to  you :  your  pride !  " 

So  pride  held  the  one  in  her  house  and  it  led  the  other 
down  Coyote  Creek,  and  each  mile,  each  hour  put  be- 
tween them  multiplied  the  difficulties,  wore  down  the  chance 
of  reconciliation.  For  by  such  simple,  basic  conflicts  are 
loves  ruined ! 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


beck's  departure 


NIGHT  had  come  upon  the  round-up  camp,  fires  near 
the  cook  wagon  were  dying.  On  the  rise  to  the 
southward  the  night-hawk  sat  with  an  eye  on  the  saddle 
stock  which  grazed  over  a  wide  area  and  in  their  tee-pees 
the  men  were  sleeping,  preparatory  to  the  first  day's  riding. 

Tom  Beck  sat  alone  by  the  glowing  remnants  of  the 
cook's  fire,  staring  stolidly  into  the  coals,  mouth  set,  strug- 
gling with  his  pride.  That  quiet,  inner  voice  continued 
its  insistence  that  he  yield  a  trifle,  give  Jane  Hunter  one 
more  chance.  "  What  ?  "  it  asked,  "  will  you  gain  by  deny- 
ing her  this?  What,  indeed,  will  be  left  for  you  if  you 
persist?" 

But  the  voice  was  weaker  than  it  had  been  early  that 
day.  The  alternative  it  raised  in  his  consciousness  less 
appealing,  and  a  determination  to  smother  it  grew  steadily. 
He  had  been  crossed ;  he  had  been  duped ! 

Oh,  he  had  been  a  fool !  he  told  himself.  He  had  thrown 
to  the  winds  his  caution  and  his  reserve ;  he  had  taken  the 
biggest  chance  that  life,  the  trickster,  dangles  before  men. 
He  had  taken  it  blindly,  against  his  better  judgment;  it  left 
him  embittered,  with  nothing  beyond  except  the  position 
which  he  held  among  men.  That  was  a  mawkish  attain- 
ment now ;  it  was  so  cheap  and  inconsequential  compared 
to  the  sense  of  accomplishment  which  had  been  his  when 
Jane  Hunter  had  thrown  herself  into  his  arms  and  begged 
that  he  carry  her  into  his  life!  Deluded  though  he  may 
have  been,  that  moment  had  opened  to  him  sensations,  vistas, 
that  he  had  never  before  imagined  existed. 

And  now!     All  else  that  remained  was  gray  and  dead. 

224 


BECK'S  DLPARTURE  225 

He  had  been  lifted  up  to  see  what  might  be,  only  to  find 
that  it  was  denied  him;  more,  those  moments  of  glory- 
had  taken  the  zest  from  the  life  that  had  been  his  before  and 
that  now  remained. 

For  long  he  sat  there  and  gradually  the  inner  voice 
died  entirely,  slowly  a  cold,  heartless  desire  to  cling  to 
a  dead  thing  like  his  standing  in  the  country  took  its 
place  as  his  chief  interest  in  life.  He  had  written  Jane 
that  such  was  all  that  remained  to  him.  He  had  not  real- 
ized as  he  scrawled  those  words  what  a  pitiful  bauble  it 
was  but  now  it  was  necessary  to  endow  it  with  values  that 
he  could  not  truly  feel.  But  he  forced  himself  to  believe 
it  of  consequence,  for  men  like  Tom  Beck  must  have  some 
one  valuable  thing  to  live  for. 

The  tee-pees  were  quiet  when  he  arose,  dropped  his 
dead  cigarette  into  the  expiring  embers  and  sought  his 
bed.  But  in  one  tee-pee  a  man  looked  out  at  the  faint 
jingle  of  spurs.  It  was  Riley  who,  with  others  from  the 
lower  country,  was  riding  with  the  H  C  wagon  to  help  the 
larger  outfit  and,  in  turn,  to  be  helped  in  his  branding.  He 
was  bunked  with  Jimmy  Oliver  and  Oliver  said: 

**  What's  he  doin'  ?  " 

"  Turnin'  in." 

Riley  settled  back  in  his  blankets  and  muttered: 

"  It's  funny  .  .  .  damned  funny,  Jim." 

"  He's  like  a  man  that's  through.  Didn't  appear  to  have 
any  real  interest  in  the  work  today,  seems  like  he  don't  give 
a  damn.     I  don't  understand  it." 

"  If  it  wasn't  Tom  Beck  I'd  say  that  they'd  got  his  goat. 
It's  hard  to  believe  of  him." 

"It  can't  be  that."  Oliver  was  loyal.  "It's  somethin' 
else,  but  it  seems  like  somethin'  worse  than  a  man  bein' 
sick  of  his  job.  Still,  he  said  twice  today  that  he  wouldn't 
be  here  long  an'  the  way  he  said  long  made  me  think  it'd 
be  a  mighty  short  time." 

Silence  for  a  time. 

"  Mebby,"  said  Riley,  "  it's  her." 


226  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Mebby  you're  right,"  the  other  rephed.  "  Tom  didn't 
used  to  give  a  damn  whether  school  kept  or  not.  Then, 
after  she  come  he  changed,  got  to  takin'  things  seriously 
and  anybody  could  see  he  was  gone  on  her.     Now.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  he  ain't  afraid  of  men.  There  ain't  bad  men 
enough  in  this  country  to  drive  Tom  Beck  out.  .  .  .  But 
w^omen.  .  .  .  They'll  put  a  crimp  in  th'  best  of  us !  " 

It  was  the  foliow^ing  evening  that  news  of  the  destruction 
of  Cathedral  Tank  was  brought  to  Tom  Beck.  Riley  had 
ridden  the  far  circle  himself  and  had  found  no  cattle  at 
the  waterhole  which  the  H  C  foreman  had  visited  only  a 
few  days  before.  That  is,  no  live  cattle.  He  found  four 
steer  carcasses,  already  ravaged  by  coyotes  and  buzzards, 
found  the  fresh  gash  in  the  rock  basin  and  had  ridden  back 
to  help  those  cowboys  who  were  no  shorter  circles,  holding 
explanation  of  the  fact  that  he  returned  empty  handed  until 
he  could  give  it  first  to  Beck. 

Tom  received  the  news  silently. 

"  I  expect  you  can  fix  up  the  basin  with  some  concrete 
so  it'll  hold  next  winter,"  Riley  said. 

"  It's  likely,"  the  other  responded,  *'  but  next  winter's 
plans  for  this  outfit  ain't  worryin'  me,  Riley. '* 

He  meant,  of  course,  that  there  were  matters  of  greater 
importance  just  then.  The  dynamiting  had  been  accom- 
plished after  his  warning  to  Webb  and  Hepburn,  which 
was  clear  evidence  that  the  war  went  on  as  desperately  as 
before  and  that  these  other  men  were  not  cowed,  their 
determinatior  to  run  him  from  the  country  had  not  been 
shaken.  A  hot  rage  swept  through  him.  Next  winter's 
plans  were  remote  indeed !  Fate  had  taken  his  woman  from 
him ;  these  renegades  would  take  away  the  last  hold  on 
life! 

But  Riley  did  not  construe  his  meaning  as  such  and 
when,  the  following  morning,  Tom  called  Jimmy  Oliver 
aside  and  talked  to  him  the  misunderstanding  of  what  went 
on  in  his  mind  was  more  complicated  for  he  said : 


BECK'S  DEPARTURE  227 

*'  Jimmy,  you're  goin*  to  lead  this  round-up  for  a  while 
.  .  .  mebby  for  good." 

"  So,  Tom?  " —  in  surprise,  and  in  hope  that  an  explana- 
tion would  be  forthcoming. 

"  I'm  leavin'  here  an'  mebby  I  won't  be  back." 

Beck  was  thinking  that  he  would  inspect  that  tank  and 
track  down  the  men  responsible  for  its  destruction  and 
make  them  pay.  He  said  that  he  might  not  be  back  because 
he  had  warned  them  away  from  H  C  property  and  could 
expect  no  leniency  if  he  invaded  their  stronghold.  Invade 
it  he  would,  for  this  had  gone  past  the  point  where  he  could 
play  a  waiting  game.  So  long  as  it  had  been  his  safety 
which  mattered  most  he  could  assume  and  retain  the  de- 
fensive, but  now  Two-Bits  had  all  but  lost  his  life  while 
executing  his  orders  and  H  C  cattle  had  been  driven  by 
hundreds  into  high  country  before  he  had  planned  they 
should  come.     It  was  time  to  counter-attack. 

Rapidly  the  word  ran  through  the  camp :  Beck  was 
leaving !  As  it  passed  from  man  to  man  it  grew,  as  rumors 
all  will,  and  took  more  definite  shape :  Beck  was  quitting. 

He  ate  silently  with  the  others  and  his  very  silence  was 
so  marked  that  it  quieted  the  rest,  warded  off  the  questions 
which  under  other  circumstances  might  have  been  put  to 
him. 

The  wrangler  brought  in  the  horses  and  Beck  was  the 
first  to  approach  the  cavet  with  rope  ready.  He  selected 
his  big  roan,  looked  the  animal  over  carefully  and  slinging 
a  canteen  over  the  horn,  climbed  rather  heavily  to  the 
saddle. 

Other  men  were  catching  up  their  horses.  One  was 
pitching  and  fighting  the  rope;  two  others  were  trying 
desperately  to  break  out  of  the  cavet.  There  was  running 
about  and  confusion,  but  as  Beck  rode  away  to  the  west- 
way,  head  down,  so  obviously  absorbed  in  himself,  men 
stopped  to  watch  and  to  wonder. 

The  H   C  foreman  was  not  the  only  individual  in  that 


228  THE  LAST  STRAW 

country  who,  as  the  sun  shoved  over  the  far  rim  of  the 
world,  thought  so  intensely  of  his  own,  wholly  personal 
interests  that  consciousness  of  what  transpired  about  him 
was  lost. 

Jane  Hunter  sat  suddenly  up  in  her  bed,  golden  hair  in 
a  shower  about  her  shoulders,  blue  eyes  that  had  been 
waking  and  painful  until  dawn,  filled  with  tears.  She  stared 
about  her  as  one  will  who  rouses  abruptly  from  a  startling 
dream,  lips  parted,  a  hand  to  her  flushed  throat,  breath 
quick  and  irregular.  She  held  so  a  moment,  then  sank 
back  into  the  pillows,  calling  softly: 

"Tom;  Tom!" 

Her  slender  body  quivered  spasmodically  and  her  sob- 
bing became  like  that  of  a  child.  One  hand,  flung  across 
the  cover,  clenched  feebly  and  feebly  beat  the  bedding,  as 
though  it  hammered  hopelessly  at  walls  which  held  her  in, 
making  her  a  prisoner  ...  as  she  was,  a  prisoner  to  her 
pride. 

And  high  up  on  the  point  which  formed  the  western 
flank  of  the  Gap  to  Devil's  Hole,  Sam  McKee  dropped 
down  from  his  gray  horse  and  stood  looking  far  out  across 
the  level  country  beneath  him.  In  the  clear  air  he  could 
see  the  smoke  of  the  round-up  camp  fire. 

Yesterday  he  had  watched  from  there,  with  Hilton's  words 
still  in  his  ears,  Hilton's  hope  in  his  heart,  and  had  known 
that  Riley  rode  to  the  tank.  Last  night  he  had  talked  and 
walked  in  the  darkness  with  the  Easterner  again,  had  heard 
Hilton's  crafty  questioning  of  Hepburn  and  Webb  which 
caused  them  to  repeat  again  and  again  their  belief  that  Tom 
Beck  would  take  it  upon  himself  to  inspect  the  damage  done 
by  dynamite.  He  had  slept  fitfully,  in  a  fever  of  anticipa- 
tion. 

And  yet  he  had  kept  secret  his  achievement  in  shooting 
down  Two-Bits.  There  was  a  time  for  all  things  and  the 
time  to  divulge  that  minor  accomplishment  was  not  yet. 
For  long  he  had  been  belittled,  and  had  no  standing  among 
his  associaties;  now  they  were  banded  in  common  cause, 


BECK'S  DEPARTURE  229 

he  had  made  one  step  toward  triumph  and  that  move  had  re- 
estabHshed  the  confidence  that  had  lain  dormant  for  long. 
It  had  enabled  Hilton's  suggestions  to  take  hold,  enabled 
him  to  whet  his  own  hate,  to  v/ork  himself  into  a  paroxysm 
of  rage,  and  today  he  was  to  emerge  a  figure  of  conse- 
quence, for  he  was  to  remove  the  obstacle  which  was  in  the 
path  of  all. 

Webb's  battered  field  glasses  were  slung  over  his  shoul- 
der and  as  he  picked  out  the  lone  dot  of  moving  life,  com- 
ing slowly  in  his  direction,  he  unstrapped  the  case  with 
hands  that  trembled.  It  required  but  one  moment  to  iden- 
tify that  horse  for  none  but  Beck's  roan  swung  along  with 
the  same  distance-eating  shack;  but  McKee  stared  for  a 
long  interval,  his  body  tense,  his  breath  slow  and  audible, 
as  if  tantalizing  himself  by  sight  of  that  isolated  rider, 
teasing  his  hatred,  teasing  it.  .  .  . 

Then  he  mounted  the  gray  and  swung  down  the  treacher- 
ous point,  seeking  a  big  wash  that  made  a  wrinkle  on  in  the 
floor  of  the  desert  where  storm  vv^aters  had  rushed  toward 
the  tank  for  countless  decades.  In  this  he  could  ride  unseen 
and  he  went  forward  at  a  trot,  eyes  straight  ahead,  moisten- 
ing his  lips  from  time  to  time.  .  .  . 


T 


% 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN    THE   SHADOW 

HE  outcropping  which  formed  Cathedral  Tank  stood 
stark  and  saffron  in  the  lap  of  the  desert  under  the  i 
morning  sun,  flinging  out  slow  waves  of  heat  even  at  that  j 
early  hour,  as  Sam  McKee  rode  from  the  wash  into  the  basin  j 
and  stopped  his  horse.  | 

Since  the  mountains  themselves  were  made  that  group  '; 
of  pinnacles  and  ledges  had  jutted  up  from  the  seamed  \ 
desert,  a  landmark  for  miles  around,  catching  the  flood  | 
waters  that  rushed  toward  it  from  far  hills.  :;5 

The  name  of  the  tank  was  result  of  no  far-fetched  im- 
aginings for  the  granite  rose  in  long,  slender  spires,  as 
though  the  thirsty  desert  reached  great  fingers  toward  the 
sky  in  stiff  appeal.  Narrow  defiles  struck  back  into  the 
granite  and  sharp  crevices  cut  deeply  down  between  the 
natural  minarets,  and  at  one  place  a  larger  opening  led 
backward  into  the  rocks,  widened  and  narrowed  again, 
forming  the  rough  outlines  of  transept  and  nave.  More, 
the  wind  which  always  blew  there  often  sounded  deep  notes 
as  of  an  organ  when  it  wandered  through  narrow  spaces. 

On  three  sides  this  abrupt,  ragged  rise  of  rock  shut  in 
the  basin  and  the  other  was  open  to  the  waters  that  swept 
down  from  the  south  and  eastward.  When  McKee  neared 
this  entrance  he  stopped  his  horse  and  reconnoitered.  The 
other  rider  was  not  in  sight,  lost  in  some  of  the  many  de- 
pressions of  the  valley  and  many  miles  yonder,  for  the  gray 
horse  had  traveled  a  shorter  distance  and  that  at  a  trot. 
The  roan  could  not  arrive  for  some  time.  ...  So  he  rea- 
soned. .  .  . 

The  man  stopped  his  horse  at  the  edge  of  the  fresh,  deep 

230 


IN  THE  SHADOW  231 

scar  which  Hepburn's  explosive  had  made.  Other  tracks 
were  there,  made  by  Riley  yesterday.  Across  the  way  lay 
the  dead  steers  and  overhead  a  buzzard  wheeled  slowly, 
waiting  to  return  to  the  feast  from  which  he  had  been 
frightened  by  Sam's  approach. 

"  Bone  dry !  "  the  man  said  aloud,  and  laughed. 

Then  he  drank  from  his  canteen  and  wiped  his  lips  with 
a  long  sigh,  either  in  satisfaction  or  anticipation,  and  then 
looked  about;  not  absently,  but  with  plan  and  craft. 

To  that  point  Beck  would  come,  there  he  would  stand,  and 
behind  was  a  ledge  on  the  face  of  the  towering  rock,  higher 
than  a  mounted  man's  head,  deep  and  with  enough  backward 
pitch  to  conceal  thoroughly  a  man's  body.  It  would  be  a 
hard  scramble,  but  he  could  gain  it  by  aid  of  a  tough  stub 
which  grew  on  the  wall.     Once  there  he  would  be  protected. 

McKee  rode  close  under  this  ledge  and  stood  in  his 
saddle,  lips  parted  and  eyes  alight.  He  could  hold  off  a 
regiment  there ;  what  chance  would  one  unsuspecting  man 
have  ?  As  he  stood  so  he  unstrapped  his  gun  and  lay  it  with 
its  belt  on  the  shelf. 

He  dropped  down  and  rode  into  a  nearby,  narrow  crevice, 
where  his  horse  could  remain  concealed,  dismounted,  and 
took  down  his  rope,  preparatory  to  tieing  the  animal. 

He  believed  his  growing  haste  was  only  anticipation,  but 
perhaps  there  was  a  quality  of  premonition  there.  He  had 
been  unable  to  follow  Beck's  progress  and  remain  concealed 
himself  ;  therefore  he  had  not  seen  the  roan  pick  up  his 
swinging  trot  as  Tom's  concentrated  thought  reached  fer- 
m.ent  and  he  sought  relief  in  speed. 

McKee  reached  for  the  reins  to  lead  his  horse  further 
into  the  crevice.  Then  his  heart  leaped  and  he  went  quickly 
cold  as  he  looked  at  the  animal. 

The  gray's  head  was  up,  ears  stiff,  eyes  alert  as  a  horse 
will  pose  on  sensing  the  approach  of  another  animal.  Even 
as  Sam's  hands  flashed  out  for  his  nose  the  nostrils  flut- 
tered and  had  he  been  an  instant  later  a  betraying  whinner 
would  have  gone  echoing  through  the  rocks  to  warn  Beck. 


232  THE  LAST  STRAW 

He  drove  his  fingers  into  the  soft  muzzle  and  choked  back 
the  sound.  The  gray  stepped  quickly  and  shook  his  head 
whereat  McKee  relaxed  his  grasp  somewhat.  They  then 
stood  quiet,  both  listening,  the  horse  alert,  the  man  weak 
and  white,  breathing  in  fluttering  gasps. 

He  was  trapped !  Outside  on  the  ledge  where  he  had 
planned  to  wait  and  shoot  Beck  down  without  giving  or 
taking  a  chance,  lay  his  gun.  On  either  side  the  walls  rose 
sheer,  without  so  much  as  a  hand-hold  for  yards  above 
his  head ;  before  was  a  blank  wall ;  outside  was  Tom  Beck. 
And  fear  of  a  degree  such  as  the  man  had  never  known 
shook  his  body. 

It  was  that  fear  which  is  as  dangerous  to  an  enemy  as 
the  most  absurd  courage.  Discovery  would  mean  catas- 
trophe; he  had  nothing  to  gain  by  shirking  now! 

Slowly  he  released  his  grip  on  the  gray's  nostrils,  holding 
ready  to  clamp  down  again  should  the  horse  attempt  to 
greet  the  other.  He  heard  hoofs  clatter  on  the  rock  basin, 
knew  that  Beck  had  stopped.  Then  the  wind  soughed 
through  the  rocks  with  its  prolonged  organ  tone  and  for 
the  moment  McKee  could  only  guess  what  happened  out 
there. 

The  gray,  with  head  turned,  stared  toward  the  opening 
of  the  crevice  and  then  as  no  other  sounds  came,  swung  his 
head  back  to  its  normal  position  and  switched  rather  lan- 
guidly at  flies. 

Carefully  McKee  stole  toward  the  entrance  of  the  crevice 
where  he  might  see  the  other  man.  He  went  with  a  hand 
against  the  granite,  putting  down  his  boots  very  carefully, 
hoping  against  hope  that  Beck  would  be  far  enough  away  so 
that  he  might  either  recover  his  gun  or  devise  some  means  of 
escape.  Perspiration  ran  from  beneath  his  hat  band  and 
his  hands  were  clammy  cold.  His  breath  continued  in  that 
fluttering  gasp. 

Beck  had  dismounted  and  was  squatted  beside  the  scar 
in  the  rocks.  His  roan  stood  a  dozen  feet  behind  him. 
McKee  peered  out,  measuring  the  distance  quickly.     The 


IN  THE  SHADOW  233 

other's  back  was  to  him  but  there  was  no  chance  that  he 
could  regain  his  gun  without  being  detected.  Beck's  re- 
volver swung  from  his  hip,  and  McKee  had  nothing  with 
which  to  fight  but  the  rope  in  his  hands.  .  .  . 

The  rope!  He  stared  down  at  it  and  drew,  back  behind 
the  boulder  of  rock.     The  rope ! 

An  absurd,  impotent  device,  but  it  had  served  purposes  as 
desperate  as  this !  Besides  .  .  .  there  was  a  hope  in  it  and, 
for  McKee,  there  was  no  other  hope  beneath  that  blue 
dome  of  sky.  .  .  . 

He  looked  out  again  as  he  built  his  loop.  Beck  was  on 
hands  and  knees,  peering  down  into  the  crack  through  which 
stored  waters  had  trickled  away.  Sam  made  the  loop 
quickly,  steeled  to  caution.  He  moved  out  from  his  hiding 
place  a  step  .  .  .  then  another.  The  roan  looked  up,  « .  ith 
a  little  whiff  of  breath  and  Beck,  attracted  by  the  movement, 
the  slight  noise,  turned  his  head  sharply  toward  the  horse. 

It  was  then  that  the  loop  swirled  and  that  McKee  sped 
forward  a  dozen  paces  as  quickly,  as  quietly  as  a  cat, 
balanced,  sure  of  himself  in  that  crisis.  From  the  tail 
of  his  eye  Beck  saw  the  first  loop  cut  the  corner  of  his 
range  of  vision  and  his  body  made  the  first  lunge  toward  an 
erect  position  as  the  lithe  writhing  thing  sped  through  the 
air.  .  .  . 

McKee  had  never  thrown  as  true.  The  loop  settled  about 
Tom's  arms  and  beneath  his  knees.  It  came  taut  with  an 
angry  rip  through  the  hondou  even  as  the  snared  man  m.ade 
the  first  move  to  throw  it  off.  He  was  pitched  violently  for- 
ward on  his  face,  arms  pinned  to  his  sides,  legs  doubled 
against  his  stomach. 

The  breath  went  from  him  in  an  angry  oath  of  surprise 
as  McKee's  breath  shot  from  his  lips  in  another  oath  .  .  . 
of  triumph.  Hand  over  hand  he  went  down  the  rope, 
keeping  it  taut,  yet  hastening  to  reach  the  doubled  body  be- 
fore Beck  could  wriggle  free.  He  fell  upon  the  other  just 
as  one  arm  worked  slack  enough  to  permit  the  hand  to 
strain  for  the  revolver  at  his  hip. 


234  THE  LAST  STRAW 

Snarling,  gibbering  with  a  mingling  of  terror  and  rage, 
McKee's  one  hand  fastened  on  the  gun.  He  clung  to  the 
rope  with  the  other,  battering  Beck,  who  struggled  to  rise, 
back  to  earth  v/ith  his  knees.  His  fingers  clamped  on 
the  grip  of  the  Colt ;  he  pulled  free :  it  flashed  in  the  air 
as  his  thumb  sought  the  hammer  and  then,  as  he  drove  the 
muzzle  downward  against  its  living  target  the  man  beneath 
him  bowed  and  writhed  and  he  went  over  with  a  cry.  A 
fist  struck  his  wTist,  the  revolver  exploded  in  the  air  and 
fell  clattering,  a  dozen  feet  away. 

Then  it  was  man  to  man,  a  fight  of  bone  and  muscle  .  .  . 
bone,  muscle  and  rope.  Blindly  McKee  clung  to  the  strand 
with  one  hand.  It  passed  about  his  body  as  they  rolled 
over.  Beck's  own  weight,  struggling  to  tear  from  it,  tight- 
ener its  hold.  Tom  struck  savagely  at  the  face  beside  him 
with  his  one  free  fist  but  McKee's  knees,  jamming  into  his 
stomach,  crushed  breath   from  him. 

For  one  vibrant  instant  their  strength  was  matched,  the 
one's  physical  advantage  offset  by  the  handicap  of  the  lariat 
about  him.  And  then  the  rope  told.  Slowly  Tom's  re- 
sistence  became  less,  gradually  McKee  wound  the  hemp 
about  his  own  hand  and  wrist,  shutting  down  its  sinuous 
grasp,  drawing  Beck's  body  into  a  more  compact  knot. 
With  a  desperate  shift  he  was  on  top,  winding  the  hard- 
twist  about  Tom's  hands,  trussing  them  tightly  behind  his 
back,  licking  his  lips  as  he  made  his  victim  secure. 

In  that  time  neither  had  spoken  nor  did  McKee  utter 
a  sound  as  he  rose,  wiped  the  dust  and  sweat  from  his 
eyes  and  surveyed  the  figure  at  his  feet.  Beck  looked  back 
at  him,  the  rage  in  his  eyes  giving  way  to  a  sane  calcula- 
tion. At  the  cost  of  great  effort  he  rolled  over  and 
propped  himself  on  one  elbow.  A  scratch  on  his  forehead 
sent  a  trickle  of  blood  into  one  eye  and  he  shook  his  head 
to  be  rid  of  it,  coughing  slightly  as  he  did  so. 

Now,"  he   said,  his   panting  becoming  less  noticeable, 

what  do  you  think  you're  goin'  to  do  ?  " 

McKee  laughed  sharply  and  looked  away.     He  walked 


it 


IN  THE  SHADOW  235 

to  where  the  revolver  lay  in  the  sharp  sunHght,  picked  it 
up,  broke  it,  examined  the  cartridges  and  closed  it  again. 

"  I  come  out  here  to  kill  you,  Beck ;  that's  what  I'm  goin' 
to  do  next." 

He  did  not  lift  his  voice  but  about  his  manner  was  a  de- 
fined swagger,  the  boasting  of  the  craven  who,  for  once,  is 
beyond  fear  of  retribution.  A  slow  shadow  crossed  between 
them  as  the  buzzard  wheeled,  waiting,  lazily  impatient.  .  .  . 

Beck  delayed  a  brief  interval  before  asking: 

"  Right  here,  Sam  ?     You  going  to  kill  me  right  here  ?  " 

"  Right  here,  you  — !  "  He  spat  out  the  unf  orgiveable 
epithet  with  a  curl  to  his  lip.  For  once  he  had  this  man 
where  he  wanted  him;  Beck's  life  was  in  his  hands  .  .  . 
right  in  his  palm.  ..."  I'm  goin'  to  kill  you  like  I'd  kill 
a  snake !  I've  took  a  lot  off  you ;  I've  stood  for  a  lot  from 
you,  but  you've  gone  too  fur,  you've  played  your  hand  too 
high !  " 

He  began  to  feel  a  greater  sense  of  his  importance.  He 
was  dominating  and  it  was  sweet. 

"  I've  waited  a  long  time,  Beck ;  I  ain't  forgot  a  thing 
you've  done  to  me;  I've  been  waitin'  for  just  this  chance! 

"Now  I'm  goin'  to  kill  you,  you  — !" 

Again  the  word,  with  even  great  conviction.  The  man's 
lips  trembled  with  rage,  but  as  he  glared  down  at  the 
other  he  saw  the  level,  mocking  eyes  studying  his.  He 
had  not  yet  impressed  Tom  Beck,  had  not  made  him  fear ! 
It  was  disconcerting. 

"  What  you  goin'  to  kill  me  with,  Sam  ?  " 

*'  With  your  own  gun,  by  God !  " —  spinning  the  cylinder. 

A  moment  of  silence  while  Sam  looked  at  the  dull  barrel, 
a  queer,  quick  hesitancy  coming  over  him,  something  he 
did  not  understand,  something  he  did  not  will.  When,  a 
moment  before,  he  felt  that  the  situation  would  take  a  course 
exactly  as  he  willed ! 

"  With  my  own  gun !  "  Beck  repeated. 

McKee  cocked  the  weapon  and  looked  about. 

"  When  you  goin'  to  do  this  killing,  Sam  ? " 


236  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  level,  mocking  tone  infuriated  the  other. 

"  Now !  "  he  cried,  shaken  by  hate.     "  Now,  by  God !  " 

He  screamed  the  curse,  threw  the  gun  up  to  position  and 
glared  into  Beck's  face,  moving  forward  a  step,  standing 
poised  as  though  he  would  shoot  and  then  fling  himself  upon 
his  victim  to  vent  his  festering  rage  with  his  fists. 

But  he  had  failed  to  reckon  throughout  on  one  fact: 
The  human  eye  is  a  stronger  weapon  than  the  inventive 
genius  of  man  has  ever  devised,  and  he  was  meeting  the 
gaze  from  an  eye  that  was  as  steady,  as  fearless,  as  col- 
lected as  any  he  had  ever  seen.  His  courage  was  the 
courage  bred  of  cowardly  impulses  and  it  could  not  stand 
before  fearlessness.  ... 

"Right  now,  Sam?" 

The  question  was  low,  gentle,  and  with  another  shade 
of  inflection  might  have  been  a  plea.  But  it  was  no  plea. 
It  was  subtle,  stinging  mockery  which  penetrated  McKee's 
luider standing  and  gave  full  life  to  that  desire  to  hesitate 
which  had  shaken  him  a  moment  before. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  to  kill  me  right  off,  are  you  Sam?  " 

And  at  that  McKee's  irresolution  became  full  blown. 
His  body  sv/ung  backward  from  its  menacing  poise,  the  gun 
hand  dropped  just  a  degree  ;  his  gaze,  an  instant  before  fixed 
and  red  with  hate,  now  wavered. 

"  No,  you  ain't  going  to  kill  me  now,  Sam.  You  ain't  got 
the  guts!" 

P^o^trate,  bound,  wholly  helpless,  miles  from  aid,  Beck 

-Ising  those  words  from  his  lips.     They  pelted  on  McKee's 

♦  ears  like  hard  flung  stones  and  he  looked  back  to  see  the 

«Yes  that  a  moment  ago  had  been  amused,  blazing  righteous 

wrath. 

"  You  wouldn't  kill  anybody,  McKee,"  Beck  said,  after  a 
breathless  pause.  In  that  pause  McKee's  gun  hand  had 
gone  to  his  side  and  as  it  went  down  so  did  the  flare  of  rage 
in  Beck's  face.  His  eyes  grew  calm  and  steady  again  with 
that  covert  amusement  in  them. 

"  You  ain't  just  that  kind  of  a  man.     If  you'd  been  goin' 


IN  THE  SHADOW  237 

to  kill  me  you'd  have  done  it  right  off.  You  wouldn't  have 
waited,  like  you're  waitin'  now.  .  .  .  You  missed  out  on 
your  intentions,  Sam,  when  you  didn't  do  it  pronto." 

Across  McKee's  face  swept  a  wave  of  helpless  rage, 
humiliation,  shame,  self  revulsion.  .  .  .  He  stood  there  un- 
able to  move.  He  wanted  to  kill  with  a  lust  that  men  seldom 
feel,  but  he  could  not  for  he  knew  that  he  was  a  coward, 
knew  that  Beck  knew,  and  the  assurance  that  it  was  within 
his  physical  power  to  take  a  life  without  risk  to  his  own 
mattered  not  at  all.     The  moral  force  was  lacking. 

He  tried  to  meet  Beck's  gaze  and  hold  it  but  he  could 
not.  That  man,  even  now,  did  not  fear  him,  and  to  a  man 
who  had  been  impelled  to  every  strong  act  by  fear,  fearless- 
ness is  of  itself  an  overwhelming  force. 

Tom  talked  on,  lowly,  confidently.  He  chided,  he  made 
fun  of  his  captor;  he  belittled  himself,  discussed  his  in- 
ability to  defend  himself,  but  time  after  time  he  said  with 
emphasis : 

"  You're  afraid  of  me,  Sam." 

Afraid  of  him !  Yes,  McKee  was  fear-filled.  He  could 
not  kill  and  yet  thought  of  the  retribution  that  might  come 
for  going  even  this  far  put  him  in  a  panic.  There  were 
others  who  would  kill.  Webb  would  have  done  it,  Hep- 
burn might  have  .  .  .  there  was  one  other  who  would  have 
killed  .  .  .  Hilton,  but  he  could  not  and  the  others  were  far 
off.  They  would  know,  they  would  ridicule  him  and  thought 
of  that,  coming  so  close  on  that  high  expectation  of  triumph 
that  had  sent  him  out  onto  the  desert,  made  his  position 
hopeless. 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  ledge  which  was 
to  have  been  his  assassin's  hiding  place. 

**  Goin'  to  leave  me,  Sam  ?  "  Beck  asked. 

''  You'll  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  ? "  McKee  raved,  wheel- 
ing, suddenly  articulate.  "  You'll  see  what'll  happen  to 
you,  you  — !  What's  already  happened  is  only  a  starter. 
I  didn't  intend  to  kill  you  myself.  I  only  come  here  to  hog- 
tie  you.     I  guess  I  done  that,  didn't  I  ?  " 


238  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Ain't  you  just  sure,  Sam?  " 

The  tone  was  stinging  and  where  McKee  might  have 
raved  on  he  simply  grasped  the  stub  on  the  rock  and 
scrambled  up  until  he  could  reach  his  revolver. 

Beck  asked  if  that  was  McKee's  arsenal;  wanted  to  know 
more  about  Sam's  plans ;  wanted  to  know  who  sent  him ; 
wanted  to  know  if  any  one  else  was  coming  or  if  they 
were  going  out  to  meet  others.  .  .  .  He  talked  gently,  slowly, 
tauntingly  until  McKee  fidgetted  like  an  embarrassed  school 

After  a  time  Beck  struggled  to  a  sitting  position,  back 
against  a  rock.  The  searing  sun  beat  down  on  his  bared 
head,  his  wrists  were  puffing,  fingers  numb  and  swollen 
from  the  ropes  cutting  into  his  flesh.  His  body  ached 
miserably,  but  he  would  not  betray  that.  His  throat  burned 
for  water  and  there  was  water  on  his  saddle,  but  he  would 
not  mention  thirst.  There  yet  was  danger !  He  must  keep 
the  other  impressed  with  his  inferiority.  .  .  . 

"That  your  pet  buzzard,  Sam?"  he  asked  once,  squint- 
ing upward  at  the  wheeling  scavanger.  "  Somebody  said 
you  kept  one  ...  to  pick  up  after  you.  .  .  ." 

"  You  wait !  You'll  have  less  to  say  after  a  while,"  Mc- 
Kee growled  and  stared  ofif  toward  the  heights  to  the  east- 
ward, feigning  expectancy. 

And  then,  as  McKee  paced  back  and  forth,  covering  his 
helplessness  and  his  fear  to  make  another  move,  by  the 
sham  of  watching  for  other  arrivals.  Beck's  mind  began 
working  on  a  theory.  Two-Bits  had  been  shot  down  the 
day  he  had  driven  McKee  ofif  H  C  range.  He  had  been 
shot  from  behind.  McKee  was  the  only  one  in  the  country 
who  had  a  personal  quarrel  with  the  homely  cowboy. 

It  was  clear  enough  to  him  but  he  feared  that  an  accusa- 
tion, bringing  some  demonstration  of  guilt,  might  bring 
other  things  that  he  dared  not  risk.  He  played  a  game 
that  was  desperate  enough.  He  lived  by  the  grace  of  Mc- 
Kee's cowardice  and  that  cowardice  had  permitted  this 
triumph  by  the  scantest  possible  margin.     To  provoke  the 


IN  THE  SHADOW  239 

desperation  that  he  knew  was  latent  in  Sam's  heart  would 
be  the  rankest  folly. 

Noon,  with  blistering  heat.  McKee  drank  greedily, 
water  running  down  his  chin  and  spattering  over  his  boots. 
It  was  agony  for  Beck  but  he  fought  against  betraying 
evidence  of  it,  holding  his  eyes  on  the  other  and  smiling  a 
trifle  and  wondering  how  long  he  could  keep  back  the 
groans. 

McKee  squatted  in  the  shade  of  a  rock  for  a  time.  Once 
he  looked  at  Beck  while  Tom  was  staring  across  the  desert 
and  that  hate  flickered  up  in  his  eyes  again ;  then  Tom  looked 
back  and  he  got  up  and  walked,  licking  his  lips. 

Two  o'clock :  "  I  don't  guess  they're  comin'  today,  Sam. 
Maybe  you  misunderstood  'em." 

Three :  "  Sure  is  too  bad  to  have  your  plans  all  go  to 
hell,  isn't  it,  Sam  ?  " 

The  sensation  had  entirely  gone  from  hands  and  lower 
arms.  His  b>ceps  and  shoulders  ached  as  though  they  had 
been  mauled ;  his  back  was  shot  with  hot  stabs  of  pain. 

But  at  four  o'clock  he  said:  '*  You'd  ought  to  have  killed 
me,  Sam.     That'd  surprised  'em  for  sure !  " 

He  bit  his  lips  to  hold  back  the  moan  and  for  a  time  things 
swam.  He  hoped  that  he  would  not  lose  consciousness 
.  .  .  hoped  this  rather  vaguely,  for  vaguely  he  felt  that 
McKee  would  kill  him  should  he  be  unable  to  realize  what 
transpired.  He  had  a  confused  notion  that  Jane  Hunter 
was  there  and  this  disturbed  him.  He  felt  a  poorly  defined 
sinking  sensation.  .  .  .  Jane  .  .  .  and  this.  Why,  then 
this  really  mattered  very  little !  That  his  life  was  in  dan- 
ger, that  his  body  hurt,  were  inconsequential  details  com- 
pared to  the  love  that  had  died  yesterday,  to  the  hurt  of 
his  heart ! 

A  draft  of  cooler  air,  sucking  through  the  rocks,  roused 
him  and  he  looked  up  to  find  that  the  tank  was  entirely  in 
shadows.  The  rocks  were  still  hot  but  the  air  which  moved 
above  them  was  heavier,  cooler.  AIcKee  paced  nervously 
back  and  forth.     He  wore  two  guns. 


240  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  You  reckon  somebody's  goin'  to  steal  me  ?  "  Beck  asked, 
forcing  his  voice  to  be  steady.  '^  I  didn't  realize  I  was  val- 
uable enough  to  be  close  herded  by  a  two-gun  man." 

With  the  moderation  of  temperature  Tom's  alertness  re- 
vived. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  sleep  right  here,  Sam ;  where  are  you  go- 
ing to  turn  in  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  sleep  pretty  well  in  th'  open ; 
how  about  you  ?  " 

He  leaned  forward  slightly  and  his  eye  had  a  brighter 
glint.  Question  after  question  he  flung  at  the  other.  Now 
and  then  McKee  growled ;  twice  he  cursed  Beck,  in  vile  ex- 
plosions of  oaths.     At  these  Beck  nodded  in  assent. 

*'  I  sure  am  an  undesirable,"  he  said. 

Back  and  forth,  bewildered,  McKee  walked.  He  dared 
not  face  the  future  with  Beck  alive ;  he  dared  not  take 
Beck's  life.  He  feared  the  punishment  that  might  be  his 
for  this  much  he  had  done ;  he  feared  the  relentless  ridicule 
of  Webb  and  Hepburn  and  of  Hilton ;  he  feared  to  go,  he 
feared  to  stay.     And  gradually  this  last  fear  grew. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  start  out  an'  ride  after  'em,  Sam," 
Beck  advised.  "Do  they  sabe  this  country?  You  better 
go ;  they  might  get  strayed.  I'll  be  here.  I  figure  on  stayin' 
quite  a  time.  I  .  .  .  Honest,  Sam,  I've  had  a  hell  of  a 
good  time  today.  ..." 

McKee  wheeled  in  his  walking. 

"  You'll  stay  all  right !  "  he  screamed.  "  You  damned 
bet  your  dirty  skin  you  won't  go  far !  You've  been  talkin'  a 
lot  wiser  than  you  know,  you  — !     You'll  stay !  " 

He  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  Tom  and  with  a  wrench 
pulled  off  the  man's  boots. 

The  movement  sent  exquisite  pains  through  Tom's  body, 
but  he  shut  his  teeth  against  them.  He  smiled,  demonstrat- 
ing more  of  the  Spartan  by  that  smile  than  he  had  at  any 
time  during  the  day. 

"  You  ain't  figuring  on  walkin'  your  boots  out,  are  you  ?  '* 
he  asked  in  mock  solicitation. 

"  Never  you  mind,  you  — !  "  McKee  snarled. 


IN  THE  SHADOW  241 

He  brought  out  his  horse,  tightened  -the  cinch  and  led  him 
toward  the  roan.  He  tied  Tom's  boots  to  his  own  saddle 
and  then  without  looking  at  the  man  he  had  come  to  kill 
and  who  he  was  leaving  bound,  waterless,  without  boots  or  a 
horse,  twenty  miles  from  the  first  help,  he  lashed  the  roan 
with  his  quirt,  sharply  about  the  head  and,  when  the  big 
creature  wheeled  in  surprise,  about  the  hocks. 

Kicking,  frightened,  stepping  on  the  reins  and  breaking 
them  oflf.  Beck's  horse  ran  away.  Ran  scot  free,  head  up, 
out  to  the  eastward,  abused  and  headed  for  home.  He 
began  to  buck,  pitching  desperately.  The  saddle  worked 
back  and  under  and  down.  He  kicked  it  free.  Somewhere 
between  the  tank  and  that  fallen  saddle.  Beck  knew  was  his 
canteen.  But  McKee  did  not  know.  He  mounted  and 
stuck  into  the  wash  through  which  he  had  ridden  hours 
before,  lashing  the  gray  to  a  gallop,  putting  distance  between 
his  menace,  his  shame.  .  .  . 

And  back  in  the  tank  as  night  came  on  a  man  for  whom 
every  move  was  torment  rolled  and  wriggled  from  place  to 
place,  searching  doggedly  for  a  ragged  rock,  among  those 
that  were  water-worn  and  smooth. 

The  buzzard  had  ceased  his  wheeling,  the  stars  came  out. 
Beck  talked  aloud  rather  crazily.  Everything  seemed 
smooth ;  even  the  pain  became  less  harsh ;  everything  was 
soft  and  easy  .  .  .  remarkably  so.  .  .  .  Until  his  cheek  felt 
a  ragged,  narrow  edge  of  rock,  close  in  against  the  base 
of  the  tallest  spire.  Moaning  feebly  he  wriggled  against 
it  until  the  ropes  touched  the  edge.  Then,  with  great  labor, 
he  began  to  writhe  and  twist.  It  took  hours  to  fray  out 
a  single  strand,  and  his  arms  were  bound  by  many  .  .  . 
hours.  .  .  . 

And  when  finally  his  arms  fell  apart,  sensations,  fiendish, 
killing  sensations,  began  to  stab  through  them,  he  laughed 
lightly  and  ended  shortly.     He  was  free !  .  .  . 

Free? 

Just  at  that  time  back  in  the  H  C  ranch  house  a  woman 


242                   THE  LAST  STRAW  ' 

i 

rose  from  her  tumbled  bed  and  dressed.     Her  eyes  were  dry  i 

though  her  breath  came  unevenly.  | 

She  looked  into  her  mirror  as  she  put  on  her  hat.  \ 

"  You're  a  fool !  "  she  cried  lowly.     "  A  fool !  .  .  .  False  j 

pride  has  taken  two  days  out  of  your  life  .  .  .  two  precious  j 

days !  "  { 

She  ran  down  the  stairs,  out  to  the  corral  and  saddled  j 

her  sorrel  horse.  A 


S\ 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A    MOUNTAIN    PORTIA 

IT  was  a  long  ride  from  the  H  C  to  the  round-up  camp 
but  the  sorrel  was  not  spared.  The  impulse  that  sent 
Jane  Hunter  through  the  last  hours  of  darkness  had  only 
accumulated  strength  before  the  resistance  which  had  held 
it  back  through  those  dragging  days.  She  was  on  her 
way  to  her  lover,  to  explain  in  a  word  the  situation  that 
had  caused  the  breach  between  them ;  she  had  fought  down 
the  pride  of  which  that  resistence  was  made  and  now  her 
every  thought,  her  every  want  was  to  make  Beck  know 
that  it  was  humiliation  and  injured  pride  rather  than  in- 
fidelity which  had  sent  him  away. 

Thought  that  she  had  failed  to  stand  self  possessed  be- 
fore Bobby  Cole  —  a  burning,  shaming  thought  yesterday 
—  was  relegated  to  an  obscure  place  in  her  consciousness. 
She  had  fallen  short  of  the  poise  her  lover  would  have  her 
retain,  but  that  did  not  matter  .  .  .  not  now. 

Without  Beck's  love  there  was  nothing  for  her,  she  had 
come  to  believe  and  she  experienced  a  strange,  little-girl 
feeling,  fleeing  toward  the  protecting  arms  that  could  com- 
fort and  hold  her  safe  from  the  blackness  that  was  else- 
where. 

She  leaned  low  on  the  sorrel's  neck  and  called  to  him  and 
he  ran  through  the  dying  night  breathing  excitedly  as  her 
impatience  was  communicated  to  him.  Dawn  yawned  in 
the  east  and  the  mountains  took  shape.  The  road  became 
discernable  before  her.  She  drew  the  excited  horse  down 
to  a  trot  and  forced  herself  to  force  him  to  conserve  some 
of  his  splendid  energy.  .  .  .  Then  urged  him  forward,  a 
moment  later,  at  a  stretching  run.  .  .  . 

243 


244  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  round-up  camp  was  moving  that  day.  The  riders 
were  up  and  the  first  had  swung  oft"  for  the  work  of  the 
morning  before  she  pulled  her  horse  to  a  stop  beside  the 
chuck  wagon. 

"  He  ain't  here,  ma'am,"  Oliver  replied  to  her  query  for 
Beck. 

"  Not  here  ?  " —  sharply,  for  she  sensed  from  him  that 
something  was  wrong. 

"  No.  He  left  yesterday.  He  told  me  to  head  this 
ride.     He  — " 

"And  where  did  he  go?"  she  broke  in,  voice  not  just 
steady. 

''  I  don't  know,  ma'am."  The  man  studied  her  face  in- 
tently, seeing  the  confusion  there,  adding  it  to  the  evidence 
he  had  collected  to  piece  out  a  theory.  ''  I  thought  maybe 
he  said  something  to  you  about  quitting." 

''  Quitting!     You  don't  mean  that !  " 

"  It  looks  like  it,  ma'am.  I  didn't  know  just  how  to  take 
vv'hat  he  said.  It  seems  like  somethin'  's  got  him  worried. 
He  wasn't  like  himself.     You  wouldn't  know  him. 

"  He  said  that  future  plans  for  this  outfit  didn't  interest 
him.  He  said  he  was  leavin'  and  it  wasn't  likely  he'd  be 
back  but  it  wasn't  so  much  what  he  said  as  it  was  th'  way 
he  said  it  that  made  me  think  he  was  goin'  to  drift.  We 
all  know  he's  got  some  pretty  active  enemies  but  it  wasn't 
like  Beck  to  run  away  from  'em.     Still.  .  .  . 

"  He  left  me  in  charge  an'  said  I  was  to  take  orders  from 
you.  He  ain't  showed  up  since  and  Lord  knows  where  he'd 
go  except  out  of  the  country." 

Out  of  the  country !  The  words  made  her  hear  but 
vaguely  the  story  of  the  ruined  Tank  and  the  questions 
about  the  work  that  Oliver  put  to  her.  Out  of  the  coun- 
try !  He  had  gone,  then,  thinking  that  her  love  had  not 
been  a  fast  love,  that  she  was  wholly  unworthy.  He  had 
taken  his  chance  and  had  lost  and  that  loss  had  taken  from 
him  even  the  desire  to  stay  and  face  the  men  who  would 
drive  him  out  of  the  countrv  because  he  had  defended  her ! 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  245 

Later  Jane  found  herself  riding  homeward,  the  sorrel 
at  a  walk,  her  mind  numb  and  heavy.  Last  night  it  had  been 
a  question  of  love  against  her  pride ;  she  had  sacrificed  the 
latter  only  to  find  that  that  sacrifice  had  been  made  too 
late. 

She  wanted,  suddenly,  to  quit  ...  to  quit  trying  .  .  . 
thinking.   .   .  . 

She  canvased  the  situation :  she  was  alone,  without  an  un- 
derstanding individual  upon  whom  to  lean.  She  was  the  tar- 
get for  great  forces  of  evil  which  sought  to  undermine  her 
very  determination  to  exist  in  that  country.  A  faint  wave 
of  resentment  made  itself  felt  at  that.  They  would  continue 
their  war  and  upon  a  lone  woman !  She  realized  her  posi- 
tion more  keenly  than  she  had  before,  when  Beck  had  been 
shielding  her.  Now  she  stood  unprotected.  If  she  were  to 
exist  she  must  stand  alone! 

Her  mind  went  back  to  that  time  when  Dick  Hilton  had 
told  her  that  she  could  not  stand  alone  and  her  resentment 
became  a  degree  more  pronounced. 

The  lethargy,  the  hopelessness  clung  but  behind  it  was 
something  else,  a  realization  that  she  had  not  lost  utterly. 
She  had  lost  the  love  she  had  found,  but  had  she  failed  to 
gain  anything?  Yesterday  it  seemed  that  the  ripest  fruits 
of  experience  were  hers ;  she  had  position  —  menaced,  but 
still  hers  —  she  had  love.  Months  before  she  had  aban- 
doned the  quest  of  love,  seeking  only  to  stand  alone.  She 
might  go  back  to  her  outlook  of  those  days,  put  aside  the 
call  of  her  heart  and  seek  only  for  place;  she  could  make 
that  search  intelligently  now ! 

She  sat  at  her  desk,  a  spirit  of  resignation  coming  as  a 
sort  of  comfort.  If  she  had  lost  love,  had  she  lost  all  that 
there  was  in  life  ?  No,  not  that !  There  was  something  else 
she  had  found  in  these  months:     She  had  found  herself! 

Tom  Beck  was  gone,  his  love  for  her  was  dead,  miles 
were  between  them,  and  she  believed  she  knew  him  well 
enough  to  understand  that  he  had  put  her  forever  behind 
him.     She  had  lost  the  true  fulfillment  of  life,  perhaps,  but 


246  THE  LAST  STRAW 

something  remained.  And  the  question  came :  Why  not 
make  the  best  of  it?  Why  not  keep  what  remains?  Why 
not  fight  for  it?     Why  not  stand  alone f 

Oh,  she  had  not  known  the  strength  that  had  been  born 
of  Beck's  resistance  to  her  wooing!  That  morning  she  be- 
Heved  that  she  could  quit,  that  she  could  drift  aimlessly, 
bufifeted  by  vagrant  influences,  but  now  she  knew  that  she 
could  not.  A  compelling  force  had  been  started  within  her 
which  would  not  down,  a  driving  impulse  to  keep  on,  to 
salvage  her  self  respect,  to  wrest  from  life  what  remained. 

And  in  this  she  recognized  that  quality  which  Beck  had 
planted  in  her,  which  he  had  nourished  and  coaxed  and 
made  to  grow.  To  keep  on  would  be  rite  offered  at  the 
shrine  of  her  love  for  him  .  .  .  though  he  was  gone.  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  she  cried  and  after  that  hope  was  born. 
He  might  return;  she  might  even  follow  and  make  him  un- 
derstand. She  set  that  back,  resolutely.  Tom  Beck  was 
gone  from  her  life,  she  told  herself,  but  his  influence  re- 
mained. That  could  never  go ;  by  error  she  had  lost  final 
achievement :  love.  By  error  she  had  been  thrown  back 
upon  herself,  her  own  resources,  her  own  will. 

The  war  that  was  waged  upon  her  had  been  a  terrifying 
thing  yesterday;  now  it  was  even  more  horrible  for  it 
sought  to  take  from  her  the  last  thing  that  remained  to  be 
desired,  and  that  could  not  be ! 

She  wiped  her  eyes  angrily  and  repeated  aloud: 

''  That  cannot  be ! " 

She  must  fight  on  alone;  fight  harder  than  she  ever  had 
fought  in  her  life  before.  It  was  up  to  her,  now,  to  re- 
main fast  in  the  face  of  efforts  to  dislodge  her. 

Jane  paced  the  floor  nervously,  in  quick,  swinging  strides. 
There  was  the  burning  of  hay,  the  breaking  of  ditches ;  there 
was  the  shooting  down  of  Two-Bits,  the  destruction  of 
Cathedral  Tank,  there  was  the  presence  in  the  Hole  of  the 
nester  and  his  daughter.  At  thought  of  Bobby  a  sharp 
pang  shot  through  her.  There  was  a  woman  who  could 
dominate!     There,   perhaps,   was   the   key   to   the   puzzle. 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  247 

Beck  had  intimated  that  her  enemies  found  a  nucleus  in  the 
nester's  outfit;  the  Reverend  had  been  outspoken  in  his 
suspicion ;  she  had  confided  in  Riley  that  she  suspected  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  Cole  himself  was  a  negligible  quantity 
but  the  girl  was  not.  The  catamount  might  hold  Jane  Hun- 
ter's fate  in  her  hand  ...  the  hand  that  had  struck  her! 

On  her  desk  lay  the  envelope  in  which  had  been  Beck's 
note;  beside  it  the  locket.  She  paused,  picked  up  the 
trinket  and  studied  it  as  it  lay  on  her  small  palm.  Slowly 
she  lifted  it  to  her  lips,  clutched  it  tightly  and  then  with  a 
catch  of  breath  fastened  it  about  her  neck,  where  it  nestled 
as  though  coming  home  again. 

She  needed  her  luck,  he  had  written !  Oh  yes,  she  needed 
her  luck ! 

And  even  then  a  rider  was  speeding  across  the  hills  to- 
ward her,  lashing  his  horse,  crashing  through  brush,  leap- 
ing down  timber,  clattering  ove/  treacherous  ledges  to  save 
time :  and  other  men  were  riding  on  Jimmy  Oliver's  orders, 
bringing  the  cow-boys  in  off  their  circles,  assembling  them  in 
Devil's  Hole  where  a  group  of  men  stood  silent  and  sul- 
len. .  .  . 

Oh,  she  would  fight  on,  desperate  in  her  determination  to 
crowd  thought  of  a  lost  love  from  her  life !  She  welcomed 
combat  for  it  would  be  as  a  balm  to  that  gaping  wound  of 
loss. 

Later  she  saw  the  rider  come  into  the  ranch  on  his  lathered 
horse.  He  flung  off  at  the  bunk  house  and,  a  moment  later, 
came  running  toward  her  with  Curtis  at  his  side. 

Alarmed,  Jane  met  them  at  the  door  with  a  query  on  her 
lips. 

'*  They  want  you  in  the  Hole,  ma'am,"  Curtis  said. 

"  What's  the  trouble  ? " —  for  it  could  be  nothing  but 
trouble  which  would  bring  men  in  such  haste  and  she  had  a 
crisp  fear  that  it  pertained  to  Beck. 

"  They've  got  Cole  down  there  with  a  lot  of  your  calves 
an'  he's  put  his  brand  on  'em.  Webb's  there,  too,  an'  Hep- 
burn.    They're  holdin'  'em  all  for  you  to  come,"  the  mes- 


248  THE  LAST  STRAW 

senger  said.  He  was  excited,  he  breathed  rapidly  and 
added :  "  Ohver  an'  Riley  agreed  you  ought  to  come.  It's 
your  property  .  .  .  an'  it's  your  fight." 

Her  fight !  Her  fight,  indeed !  Perhaps  this  was  a  draw- 
ing to  a  head  of  the  forces  that  had  been  arrayed  against 
her.  The  man  had  mentioned  Webb  and  Hepburn  as  though 
he  considered  their  presence  of  significance. 

A  pinto,  this  time,  bore  her  away  from  the  ranch,  the 
man,  tense  and  silent,  riding  beside  her.  She  did  not  speak 
as  they  scrambled  up  the  point  and  gained  high  country 
nor  did  she  look  at  him  as  they  set  into  a  gallop  again. 
An  indistinct  haze  was  coming  in  the  west  with  a  looming 
thunder  head  protruding  from  it  here  and  there.  The 
wind  in  their  faces  was  hot  and  fitful.  The  scarf  about 
her  neck  fluttered  erratically. 

Jane  had  little  attention  for  the  detail  of  that  ride.  This 
was  her  fight  and  she  raced  to  meet  it  w^ith  an  eagerness 
born  of  necessity  to  retain  what  she  might  of  the  happiness 
she  had  made  hers.  And  as  she  rode  Tom  Beck,  pieces 
cut  from  his  chaps  bound  about  his  feet  to  protect  them 
on  the  long  journey  by  foot,  his  retrieved  canteen  over  his 
shoulder,  limped  into  the  camp,  heard  the  cook's  vague,  dis- 
connected story  of  the  discovery  that  had  been  made  in  the 
Hole,  borrowed  boots,  saddled  a  horse  and  rode  swiftly 
across  the  hills. 

The  pinto  took  Jane  down  the  trail  in  great  lunges,  for 
she  had  no  thought  for  dangers  of  the  descent.  At  the  foot 
was  one  of  her  men,  Baldy  Bowen,  sitting  ominously  on  his 
horse  with  a  rifle  across  the  horn.  He  watched  her  come 
and  before  she  could  speak  jerked  his  head  and  said: 

"  They're  waitin'  for  you,  straight  across  there,  ma'am." 

She  glanced  in  his  direction  and  set  ofif  with  renewed 
speed,  winding  through  the  cedars. 

Against  the  far  wall  of  the  Hole  was  formed  a  curious 
group  before  a  fence  of  brush  and  wire  that  blocked  the 
entrance   to   a  box  gulch.     H   C   riders   were   there,   dis- 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  249 

mounted,  in  a  silent,  unsmiling  cluster.  Under  a  cedar  tree 
sat  Cole,  the  nester,  knees  drawn  up,  arms  falling  limply 
over  them;  more  than  ever  he  seemed  to  be  drooping,  in 
spirit  as  well  as  body.  He  did  not  glance  up;  just  sat, 
staring  from  beneath  drooping  lids  at  the  ground.  Nearby 
lounged  one  of  Jane's  cowboys,  his  holster  hitched  sig- 
nificantly forward. 

Apart  from  these  others  stood  Hepburn,  Webb  and  Bobby 
Cole  and  one  other,  curiously  out  of  place  in  his  smart 
clothes :  Dick  Hilton.  Now  and  then  one  of  the  four  spoke 
and  the  others  would  eye  the  speaker  closely;  then  look 
away,  absorbed  in  a  situation  that  was  evidently  beyond 
words.  Sitting  grouped  on  the  ground  were  Webb's  riders 
and  Cole's  Mexicans.  They  talked  and  laughed  lowly 
among  themselves  and  from  time  to  time  turned  rather 
taunting  grins  at  Jane  Hunter's  men. 

At  a  short  distance  stood  horses,  grazing  or  dozing;  list- 
less, all.  But  there  was  no  listlessness  among  the  men. 
The  atmosphere  was  tense  ...  to  the  breaking  point. 

A  rider  came  through  the  brush  -and  stopped  his  horse.  It 
was  Sam  McKee.  He  looked  with  widening  eyes  at  the 
gathering,  hesitated,  as  though  to  turn  and  leave,  then  ap- 
proached. 

"  I  seen  two  men  in  th'  Gap,"  he  said  to  Webb.  ''  They 
said.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  about  again. 

"  Well,  get  down  an'  set,"  Webb  said  cynically. 

McKee  stared  from  face  to  face. 

''  I  guess  I'll  go  on." 

"  I  guess  you'll  stay  here,"  said  Jimmy  Oliver  firmly. 
'*W^e've  got  a  little  matter  to  talk  over  an'  nobody  leaves. 
I  guess  the  boys  in  th'  Gap  probably  thought  you'd  like  to 
hear  what  was  goin'  on." 

Hilton  stepped  toward  Oliver. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I'm  a  disinterested  party  to  all 
this.     There's  no  use  in  my  staying  here." 

"  What  I  said  to  Sam  goes  for  everybody  else,  Mister. 


2^0  THE  LAST  STRAW 

When  we  put  riders  In  the  Gap  an'  at  the  trails  we  intended 
for  everybody  to  hang  around.     That  goes.     Everybody !  " 

Then  he  added:  "If  anybody  wants  to  get  out  it'll  be 
pretty  good  evidence  that  he's  got  somethin'  to  hide.  This 
's  a  matter  that  the  whole  country's  interested  in.  You  ain't 
got  nothin'  to  hide,  have  you  ?  " 

The  Easterner  did  not  reply;  turned  back  to  Bobby  with 
a  grimace. 

Sound  of  running  hoofs  and  a  quick  silence  shut  down 
upon  the  gathering.  The  clouds  were  coming  up  more 
rapidly  from  the  west;  day  was  drawing  down  into  them; 
the  wind  on  the  heights  soughed  restlessly. 

Jane  Hunter  brought  her  pinto  to  an  abrupt  stop  and 
sat,  flushed  and  wind-blown,  looking  about. 

"Well?"  she  said  to  Jimmy  Oliver  as  he  stepped  for- 
ward. 

"  We  sent  for  you,  ma'am,  because  we  stumbled  onto 
somethin'  that  looks  bad  .  .  .   for  somebody." 

Her  eyes  ran  from  face  to  face.  In  the  expression  of  her 
men  she  read  a  curious  loyalty,  mingled  with  speculation. 
They  watched  her  closely  as  Oliver  spoke,  as  men  look  upon 
a  leader,  as  though  waiting  for  her  to  speak  that  they 
might  act.  Still,  about  them  was  a  reservation,  as  though 
their  acceptance  of  her  was  conditional,  as  though  they  won- 
dered what  she  would  say  or  do. 

She  saw  Webb  and  Hepburn  eyeing  her  craftily ;  she  saw 
Bobby  Cole's  gaze  on  her,  filled  with  hate  and  scorn  .  .  . 
and  a  strange  brand  of  fear.  And  she  saw  Dick  Hilton,  eye- 
ing her  with  helpless  rage  and  offended  dignity.  The  entire 
assemblage  was  grimly  in  earnest. 

''  Go  on,"  she  said  lowly  and  dismounted,  standing  erect 
on  a  rise  of  rock  that  put  her  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
others. 

"  Jim  Black  here," —  indicating  a  cowboy  in  white  angora 
chaps  — "  took  down  the  trail  after  a  renegade  steer  this 
forenoon.  He  came  on  this  place  and  a  hot  fire  and  a 
yearlin*  steer  of  yours  whose  brand  had  been  tampered  with. 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  251 

"  There's  been  enough  goin'  on  recent,  ma'am,  to  let 
everybody  know  that  something  was  pretty  wrong.  Mebby 
we've  run  onto  the  answer  today.  That's  why  we  sent  for 
you." 

She  looked  about  again  and  old  Riley,  moving  out  from 
the  group  slowly,  as  a  man  who  feels  that  the  welfare  of 
others  may  be  in  his  hands  might  move,  said: 

**  For  twenty  years  we've  lived  quite  peaceable  here,  Miss 
Hunter.  Since  spring  we've  had  anything  but  peace.  It 
ain't  a  question  that  concerns  any  one  of  us  alone ;  it  ef- 
fects the  whole  country.  We've  got  evidence  here  of 
stealin';  we've  got  a  man  who,  in  our  minds,  ought  to  be 
tried  for  that  crime.  .  .  . 

"  We  sent  for  you  because  it  happened  to  be  your  prop- 
erty. There's  plenty  of  law  in  the  mountains,  but  things 
have  happened  here  that  have  put  men  beyond  that  law. 
Parties  have  resorted  to  the  law  of  strength,  and  not  honest 
strength  at  that.  It's  time  it  was  stopped  or  some  of  us 
ain't  goin'  to  exist.  .  .  . 

"  I  know  this  ain't  a  pleasant  task  for  a  woman,  but  it 
seems  like  somethin'  you've  got  to  face  ...  if  you're  goin' 
to  stay  here.     I  guess  you  understand  that,  ma'am." 

Jane's  heart  leaped  in  apprehension,  she  was  short  of 
breath,  blood  roared  in  her  ears,  but  she  fought  to  retain 
at  least  a  show  of  composure. 

"  It  seemed  there  wasn't  any  way  out  of  it,  but  to  turn 
the  matter  over  to  you.  We'll  all  tell  what  we  know ; 
we'll  see  that  there's  order  here.  We  agreed  you  ought  to 
sit  as  judge  on  the  evidence  against  this  man." 

Again  a  consciousness  of  those  faces  upon  her;  faces 
of  her  men,  honest,  rugged,  brave  fellows,  looking  to  her 
to  stand  alone !  She  knew,  then,  what  that  alloy  in  their 
loyalty  had  been.  They  would  follow  if  she  would  lead; 
there  was  doubt  in  their  hearts  that  she  could  lead,  for  she 
was  a  woman,  she  was  a  stranger  and  not  their  kind !  For 
months  they  had  watched  her,  refusing  to  judge,  but  now 
the  time  had  come.     Now,  if  she  ever  was  to  stand  alone. 


252  THE  LAST  STRAW 

she  must  rise  in  her  own  strength  and  be  worthy  to  lead 
such  men ! 

Then  there  were  those  others :  Hepburn  and  Webb  and 
their  outlaw  following ;  perhaps,  among  them,  the  man  who 
had  shot  Two-Bits  down  when  he  was  serving  her ;  perhaps 
the  man  who  had  burned  her  hay,  broken  her  ditches,  run 
off  her  horses.     The  men  who  would  drive  her  out. 

She  felt  suddenly  weak.  They  were  all  watching  her. 
This  was  the  hour  in  which  she  must  win  or  lose.  It  was 
she,  not  Alf  Cole,  who  was  on  trial ! 

Jane  began  to  speak,  rather  slowly,  but  evenly  and  clearly. 

*'  I  want  the  story  from  the  beginning.  Jim  Black,  will 
you  tell  what  you  know  ?  " 

Thus  simply  she  accepted  her  responsibility  to  the  coun- 
try, took  up  her  final  fight  for  position  there. 

Black  stepped  forward,  serious,  quiet,  showing  no  self 
consciousness  whatever  as  the  eyes  swung  upon  him. 
Webb's  riders  had  risen  and  were  grouped  behind  their 
leader. 

"  Jimmy  told  you  how  I  happened  here.  This  steer, 
ma'am,  cut  across  the  flat  an'  I  followed.  I  heard  bawlin' 
over  this  way  an',  naturally,  was  surprised.  Pulled  up 
my  boss  an'  rode  over.  There  was  a  fire  in  that  gulch,  an' 
it'd  just  been  scattered.  A  man  had  been  kneelin'  down 
by  it,  an'  there  was  one  of  your  yearlin's  hog-tied  there. 
Your  ear  mark  was  still  on  him  but  your  brand  had  been 
made  from  an  H  C  into  a  T  H  O  by  crossin'  the  H  an' 
closin'  the  C." 

He  stooped  and  with  his  quirt  demonstrated  thusly: 

hC      TO 

"  There  was  other  calves  in  there.  I  counted  sixteen. 
They  was  all  T  H  O  stuff  an'  they  was  all  mighty  young." 

"  Did  you  see  any  men?  "  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  dragged  it  for  high  country,  got 
Jimmy  an'  told  him." 


A  MOUNIAIN  PORTIA  253 

**  Oliver,  have  someone  bring  out  this  yearhng,"  Jane  said. 

Two  men  mounted  their  horses,  opened  the  brush  gate, 
roped  the  steer  and  dragged  him,  bawhng,  into  the  assem- 
blage. Jane  stepped  down  from  her  rock  and,  with  a  dozen 
others  crowding  about,  examined  the  brand. 

'*  That's  unmistakable,"  she  said  lowly  as  she  straight- 
ened. "  Part  of  that  brand  healed  months  ago ;  the  rest  is 
fresh.'' 

She  moved  back  to  the  rock  on  which  she  had  stood  and 
rested  a  hand  on  the  pinto's  withers. 

"  Oliver,  what  did  you  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  gathered  the  boys  an'  come  down  here  as  fast  as  I 
could.  I  saw  this  pen  an'  the  calves.  I  sent  men  to  both 
trails  an'  two  to  the  Gap  with  orders  to  shoot  to  kill  any- 
body that  tried  to  get  out.     Then  I  went  to  Cole's  house. 

*'  Cole  swore  up  an'  down  that  he  didn't  know  anything 
about  it.  His  gal  was  there  an'  this  here  party  from  the 
east," — with  a  rather  contemptuous  jerk  of  his  head  to- 
ward Hilton.  "  I  brought  Cole  back  here  an'  the  others 
followed. 

"  Seems  Webb  and  Hepburn  an'  their  men  was  in  th'  Hole. 
I  didn't  know  it.     Th'  gal  .  .  .  she  went  to  get  'em. 

"  It's  just  as  well," —  dryly.  *'  This  ain't  a  matter  that  af- 
fects any  one  of  us.  It's  for  everybody  in  th'  country  to 
consider." 

Hepburn  stirred  uneasily  as  Jane  looked  from  Oliver  to 
him. 

"  I  think  all  that's  necessary  is  to  talk  to  Mr.  Cole,"  she 
said. 

The  nester  looked  up  slowly  and  laboriously  gained  his 
feet.     He  slouched  toward  the  girl. 

*'  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,"  he  said  in  his  whining 
voice. 

Bobby  Cole  took  a  quick  step  forward  as  he  spoke,  but 
Hepburn  put  out  a  detaining  hand  and  muttered  a  word. 
She  stopped.     Her  face  was  colorless ;  eyes  hard  and  bright; 


254  THE  LAST  STRAW 

she  breathed  quickly  and  seemed  almost  on  the  verge  of 
tears. 

"  Who  built  this  pen  ?  '*  Jane  asked. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Did  you  ever  see  it  before?" 

"  No,  I  —  well,  I  did  see  it,  but  I  don't  know  nothin'  about 
it." 

*'  You've  been  here  all  the  Spring  and  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  it  ?  " 

Her  tone  was  sharp,  decisive  and  the  color  had  mounted 
in  her   face.     She  leaned  slightly  forward  from  the  hips. 

"  No,  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,"  he  protested,  lifting 
his  characterless  eyes  to  her's. 

"  Who  brands  your  cattle  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  No  one  else  ?  " 

"  Not  another,"- —  with  a  slow  shaking  of  the  head. 

"  Can  you  think  of  anybody  who  would  put  your  brand 
on  my  cattle  ?  " 

"  No.     Nobody  would  hev  done  that." 

"  But  have  you  looked  at  this  steer  ?  " —  indicating  the 
yearling  with  the  indisputable  evidence  on  his  side. 

Cole  lifted  an  unsteady  hand  to  scratch  his  mustache, 
eyed  the  animal  furtively  and  glanced  at  Hepburn.  As 
their  eyes  .met  Hepburn's  head  moved  in  slight,  quick  nega- 
tion. Ever  so  slight,  ever  so  quick,  but  Jane  Hunter  saw 
and  Hepburn  saw  that  she  saw  and  a  guilty  flush  whipped 
into  his  face,  spreading  clear  to  the  eyes. 

"  Hasn't  someone  been  working  over  my  brand  ? "  she 
demanded,  forcing  Cole  to  look  at  her  again. 

'*  I  don't  know  ...  I  dunno  nothin'  about  it.  .  .  ." 

She  breathed  deeply  and  moved  a  step  backward. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  these  calves  come  to  be  here  ? 
My  calves,  with  your  brand  on  them  ?  " 

"  Them  is  my  calves,  ma'am,"  he  protested,  weakly. 
"  Them  is  old  brands." 

"  Oh,  all  but  this  yearling  belong  to  you  ?  " 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  255 


(t 
(I 


Yes," — nodding*   his    head    as    his    confidence    rallied. 
Them's  all  mine.     I  branded  'em  myself." 
And  why  do  you  keep  them  here  ?  " 
Well,   there's   water   an'    feed   an'   I   wanted   to   wean 


'em  — " 


"  And  a  moment  ago  you  said  you  knew  nothing  about 
this  pen  ?  " 

A  flicker  of  confusion  crossed  the  man's  face  and  again 
he  looked  away  toward  Hepburn  in  mute  appeal.  Hep- 
burn's face  reflected  a  contempt,  a  wrath,  and  for  a  frac- 
tion of  time  Jane  studied  it  intently,  a  quick  hope  forming 
in  her  breast.  She  lifted  a  hand  to  touch,  in  unconscious 
caress,  the  locket  which  was  at  her  throat. 

"  Look  at  me,  Cole !  "  she  cried  and  her  body  trembled. 
Her  tone  was  compelling,  she  experienced  a  sensation  of 
mounting  power,  felt  that  she  was  dominating  and  without 
looking  she  knew  that  the  men  before  her  stirred,  impressed 
by  her  rising  confidence.  *'  Look  at  me  and  answer  my  ques- 
tions !  " 

Hesitatingly  the  man  looked  back  and  then  dropped  his 
eyes. 

*'  \Vell,  I  said  I  knew  it  w^as  here." 

''  You  knew  more  than  that.  You  have  been  using  it. 
How  long  ago  was  it  built  ?  " 

"  A  month  —  Oh,  I  dunno  — " 

"  What  about  a  month  ?  "  she  insisted,  gesturing  bruskly. 
**  What  about  a  month  ?  " 

"  I  dunno." 

She  relaxed  a  trifle  again  and  eyed  the  confused,  visibly 
agitated  man.  For  a  breath  the  place  was  in  utter  silence. 
The  gloom  deepened;  the  wind  held  off.  It  was  as  though 
the  crisis  were  at  hand.  .  .  .  And  just  then  the  man  at  the 
foot  of  the  trail  across  the  flat  put  down  his  rifle  and  said 
with  a  short  laugh : 

"  I  didn't  make  you  out,  Tom." 

When  Jane  spoke  again  it  was  in  an  easier  tone. 


256  THE  LAST  STRAW 

*'  How  did  you  happen  to  come  to  this  country,  Cole  ?  " 

He  looked  up,  relief  showing  in  his  face  as  she  aban- 
doned the  other  line  of  questioning.  Hepburn  stirred  and 
Webb  lifted  a  hand  to  hook  his  thumb  in  his  belt. 

"  Why,  I  heered  about  this  place.  Good  feed  an'  water 
an'  a  place  to  settle.     So  I  just  come ;  that's  all." 

"  How  did  you  hear  about  it?  " 

"  A  feller  told  me." 

"  Who  ?  " 

*'  I  dunno  his  name.     I  — " 

"  How  many  cows  have  you  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  suddenly  sharp  and  hard  as  she  cut  in 
on  his  impotent  evasion  and  shifted  her  subject  again. 

''  Why,  'bout  twenty." 

"  And  how  many  calves  are  with  them  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  calculate,  but  she  insisted,  leaning  closer 
to  him : 

"  How  many  calves  ?  " 

"  Why,  not  more'n  half  of  'em  got  calves." 

"Sure?     Not  more  than  half?" 

"  Why  ...  I  guess  — " 

"  And  you've  got  sixteen  young  calves  in  this  pen !  How 
do  you  account  for  that  ?  " 

•A  murmur  ran  among  her  men  and  Cole  looked  at  her 
with  fright  in  his  eyes. 

*'  I  dunno !  "  he  suddenly  burst  out,  voice  trembling.  "  I 
dunno  nothin'  about  it.  You've  all  got  me  here  an'  are 
pickin'  on  me.  I  didn't  steal  anything.  I  thought  they 
was  all  mine."  And  then,  in  a  broken,  repressedly  frantic 
appeal :  "  I  don't  want  to  go  to  jail  again.  I  don't  know 
nothin'  .  .  ." 

"  Again  ?  "  she  said,  quite  gently. 

He  looked  at  her  and  nodded  slowly.  The  little  resist- 
ance he  had  offered  her  was  gone ;  his  limbs  trembled  and 
his  eyes  had  that  whipped,  abject  look  that  a  broken  spirited 
dog  will  show. 

"You've  been  in  jail  once?    For  stealing  cattle? 


M 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  257 

"  I  didn't  steal.  .  .  .  They  said  I  did.  They  didn't  want 
me  around.  They're  Hke  all  you  big  outfits ;  they  don't  want 
me  .  .  ,  they  don't  want  me.  ..." 

He  lifted  one  hand  in  a  gesture  of  hopeless  appeal  and 
tears  showed  in  his  eyes.  They  didn't  want  him,  as  she 
didn't  want  him !  And  suddenly  an  overwhelming  pity 
surged  upward  in  the  girl  for  this  man.  It  was  like  her, 
like  all  the  .Jane  Hunters,  like  all  men  and  women  in  whose 
hearts  great  strength  and  great  pity  is  combined.  There 
was  no  question  of  his  guilt,  but  he  was  helpless  before  her; 
his  fate  was  in  her  hands  .  .  .  and  back  in  her  mind  that 
other  theory  was  forming;  that  other  hope  was  coming  to 
stronger  life.  .  .  . 

"  Cole,  did  you  steal  my  calves  ?  " 

She  leaned  low  and  spoke  intently;  her  voice  was  a 
mingling  of  resolution  and  warmth  that  created  confidence 
in  his  heart.  For  a-  moment  he  evaded  her  look ;  then  an- 
swered it  and  a  sob  came  up  into  his  thin  throat  and  shook 
it.  He  looked  from  her  to  Hepburn  and  then  to  Webb  and 
read  there  something  that  Jane,  whose  eyes  followed  his, 
could  not  read ;  all  she  could  read  was  threat  .  .  .  threat, 
threat ! 

"Did  you  steal  my  calves?"  she  repeated  in  a  tone  even 
lower. 

She  saw  her  men  strain  forward. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  jail!"  he  said  and  tears 
streamed  down  his  seamed  cheeks.  "  I  took  'em  .  .  .  but 
I'm  a  poor  man  ...  a  poor  man.  .  .  ." 

From  Bobby  came  a  stifled  cry.  She  started  forward 
again,  but  this  time  it  was  Hilton  who  grasped  her  arm, 
rather  roughly.  He  drew  her  back,  hissing  a  word  between 
his  teeth.     His  eyes  glittered. 

Riley  stepped  forward  quickly  beside  Cole.  His  face  was 
strained ;  mouth  very  grim.  Oliver  was  beside  him ;  breath- 
ing quickly. 

"  What's  your  verdict,  Miss  Hunter?  "  Riley  asked.  His 
voice  was  hoarse. 


258  THE  LAST  STRAW 


'<  '\r. 


'ou  have  heard  it,"  she  said  gently.  "  You  heard  it 
from  his  Hps." 

She  was  not  looking  at  them,  but  at  Bobby  Cole,  who 
stood  with  knuckles  pressed  against  her  lips,  fright,  misery 
in  her  staring  eyes.  The  strength,  the  vindictiveness  was 
gone.     She  was  a  little  girl,  then,  a  little  girl  in  trouble ! 

''  Then  I  guess  there's  nothin'  to  do,  but  to  go  through  with 
this  ourselves."  The  old  cattle  man  spoke  slowly  and  rather 
heavily.  ''  Cole,  there's  a  way  of  treatin'  thieves  in  this 
country  that's  gone  out  of  fashion  in  recent  years ;  we  ain't 
had  to  hang  nobody  for  a  long  time,  but  — " 

"  Stop !  " 

It  was  a  clear,  ringing  cry  from  Jane  that  checked  Riley, 
that  caused  the  man  who  had  grimly  picked  up  his  rope  to 
stand  holding  it  motionless  in  his  hand. 

"  This  is  a  matter  for  all  of  us,  but  by  common  consent 
I  was  selected  to  judge  this  man.  He  has  admitted  his 
guilt  after  an  opportunity  to  protest  his  innocence.  Now 
you  must  let  me  pass  sentence.  ..." 

"  Sentence,  ma'am  ?  "  Riley  asked.  "  There's  only  one 
way.  This  has  been  war:  they've  warred  you,  they've 
threatened  to  drive  you  out.  It's  you  or  .  .  .  your  enemies. 
This  man  is  your  proven  enemy.  Make  an  example  of  him. 
He's  guilty;  nothin'  else  should  be  considered!" 

"  One  thing,"  she  said,  smiling  for  the  first  time  that 
afternoon,  a  slow,  serious,  grave  smile,  withal  a  tender  smile, 
as  she  looked  at  Cole,  the  trembling  craven. 

''One  thing:     The  quality  of  mercy! 

"Men,  do  you  know  that  line?  'The  quahty  of  mercy 
is  not  strained.  It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from 
heaven  '  ? 

"  Mercy  is  the  most  holy  thing  in  human  relations.  It  is 
a  blessing  not  only  to  the  man  who  receives  it,  but  to  the 
man  that  gives  !  " 

The  first,  dissenting  stir  died.  This  was  no  dodging,  no 
evading  the  issue.  This  was  something  new  and  her  manner 
caught  their  interest  as   she   stood   with   one   outstretched 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  259 

hand  appealing  frankly  for  their  attention  and  understand- 
ing. 

"  This  man  has  stolen  from  me.  You  have  seen  him 
here.  He  has  shown  himself  to  be  a  weakling,  a  poor, 
wretched  man,  who  has  neither  friends  nor  respect  for 
himself.  He  has  known  trouble  before."  She  looked  from 
the  man  before  her  to  Bobby  whose  strained  face  was  on 
her's  with  amazement,  whose  breast  rose  and  fell  irregularly, 
in  whose  eyes  stood  tears.  "  I  think  that  he  has  known 
little  but  trouble;  he  has  been  unfortunate  perhaps  because 
he  tried  to  help  himself  by  troubling  others.  There  is  only 
one  thing  left  in  life  for  him  and  that  is  his  liberty. 

**  He  cannot  hurt  me.  He  cannot  hurt  any  of  us  from 
now  on.  He  knows  what  we  know  of  this  thing  today. 
He  will  stand  before  us  all  as  a  man  who  has  not  played 
the  game  fairly. 

"  Do  you  fear  him  ?  Do  you  young,  strong  men  fear 
this  man?  .  .  .  No,  you  don't!  No  more  than  I.  We  have 
seen  him  humbled;  we  have  heard  him  plead.  Giving  him 
his  liberty  will  cost  us  nothing,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to 
promise  you  that  he  will  never  steal  from  us  again  ...  if 
we  do  this  for  him.  .  .  .  Don't  you  agree  with  me  ?  " 

She  looked  from  face  to  face,  but  as  her  eyes  traveled 
they  were  not  for  an  instant  unconscious  of  other  faces  .  .  . 
back  there ;  faces  to  which  had  come  relief,  relaxation,  color, 
after  tensity  and  pallor;  faces  which  the  next  instant  were 
dark  and  apprehensive,  for  she  said: 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  am  through  .  .  .  not 
now.  There  has  been  stealing,  but  that  has  been  only  a  part 
of  the  trouble.  There  have  been  other  things,  things  which 
this  man  who  we  know  has  stolen  would  not  do.  Let  us  not 
be  satisfied  with  cutting  off  the  top  of  this  weed  w^hich  has 
poisoned  the  range;  let  us  try  to  get  to  the  roots  and  tear 
them  out !  " 

She  stood,  beautiful  in  the  confidence  which,  with  a  sen- 
tence, wath  a  gesture,  had  checked  these  men  in  their  de- 
termination to  administer  justice  as  it  once  had  been  admin- 


26o  THE  LAST  STRAW 

istered  in  those  hills,  which  had  stilled  dissent  on  their  lips, 
which  had  switched  their  reasoning  into  a  new  path.  Alone 
among  them  she  could  dominate  !  Her  strength,  doubted  an 
hour  ago,  over-rode  Riley's  influence,  created  by  years  of 
prestige  on  the  range,  even  made  that  old  cattleman  stand 
back  and  wait  respectfully,  wondering  what  she  had  to  say. 
Her  color  was  high,  eyes  bright,  lips  parted  slightly  in  a 
grave,  assured  smile,  and  he  one  extended  hand,  small, 
white,  delicate  held  them ! 

''  This  thievery  was  only  a  symptom,  only  an  indication 
of  what  has  transpired,"  she  went  on.  "  Just  the  outward 
evidence  of  those  desires  and  impulses  which  have  turned 
into  chaos  the  peace  of  this  beautiful  country.  Into  that 
we  must  inquire  and  there  is  one  more  witness  I  v/ant  to 
call." 

She  hesitated,  then  said  gently : 

"  Bobby  Cole." 

A  low  murmur  again  ran  through  the  group  and  from 
the  clouds  above  them  came  a  muttering  of  thunder. 

All  turned  to  look  at  the  girl  and  so  intent  were  they  that 
they  did  not  see  a  horseman  ride  through  the  trees  and 
stop  and  look ;  and  dismount.  Tom  Beck  walked  slowly  to- 
ward the  group,  until  he  could  lay  a  hand  on  the  hip  of  Jane 
Hunter's  pinto.     Then  he  stood  behind  her,  eyes  curious. 

"  Will  you  come  up  here  and  talk  to  me  ?  "  Jane  asked. 

The  other  girl  remained  motionless. 

"  Well  now.  Miss  Hunter,  don't  you  think  — "  Hepburn 
began  in  mild  protest. 

"  I  think  many  things,  Mr.  Hepburn.  My  purpose  is 
either  to  justify  or  to  convince  myself  that  I  think  wrongly. 
Will  you  come  .  .  .  Bobby?" 

Almost  mechanically  the  girl  moved  forward.  Hilton 
muttered  a  quick  word  to  Webb  and  Webb  glanced  back 
nervously.     Two  oi  his  men  moved  closer. 

"  But  we've  found  out  about  your  calves,  Miss  Hunter. 
What  else  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 


A  MOUNT.^IN  PORTIA  261 

Hepburn's  voice  was  breath-choked  though  outwardly  he 
maintained  composure. 

*'  It  makes  damned  Httle  difference."  It  was  Riley  speak- 
ing and  his  hand  was  on  his  holster.  "  Hepburn,  you  and 
everybody  else  stand  pat  until  you're  called  for." 

Hepburn's  eyes  flared  malevolently.  He  started  to  speak 
again,  but  closed  his  lips,  as  in  forebearance.  Sam  McKee 
coughed  with  a  dry,  forced  sound. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

Bobby  stopped  before  Jane  and  eyed  her  up  and  down, 
gaze  settling  on  the  girl's  face  finally.  There  was  hostility 
in  it ;  there  was  hate  ...  a  degree ;  but  these  were  soft- 
ened, subdued,  leavened  by  an  outstanding  appreciation. 
Her  lips  trembled  and,  almost  thoughtlessly,  she  put  out 
a  hand  to  touch  her  father's,  fingers  squeezing  his  in  a 
movement  of  affection  .  .  .  and  relief. 

For  a  moment  Jane  did  not  speak.  Then  she  began, 
lowly,  rapidly,  flushed  but  resolute  and  with  a  light  of 
friendliness  in  her  eyes. 

*'  I  want  you  to  understand  me  .  .  .  without  any  more 
delay.  You  and  I  came  into  this  country  at  about  the  same 
time.  Where  we  should  have  been  friends  from  the  first 
we  have  been  enemies ;  it  even  came  to  such  a  pass  that 
you  promised  to  drive  me  from  the  country." 

Her  voice  shook  a  bit  and  on  the  words  that  old  hostility 
leaped  back  into  Bobby's  face. 

"  I  think  that  was  because  you  did  not  understand  me. 
You  have  thought  that  I  wished  you  bad  luck  from  the  first 
and  that  is  not  so.  Had  I  wanted  to  have  vengeance  on 
you,  had  I  wanted  to  drive  you  out,  I  could  have  done  so 
this  afternoon  .  .  .  only  a  moment  ago.  I  am  not  trying 
to  impress  you  with  my  generosity  because  I  don't  feel  that 
I  have  been  generous.  I  have  tried  to  be  just;  that  is  all. 
I  have  tried  to  do  the  thing  that  would  mean  the  most  to 
all  of  us.  .  .  . 

'*  But  there  are  things  with  which  you  can  help  me,  I 


262  THE  LAST  STRAW 

am  sure.     There  are  so  many  things  that  we  have  in  com- 
mon.    You  see,  you  and  I  are  very  much  aHke." 

That  touched  the  other's  curiosity.  She  was  all  intent, 
lips  parted,  eyes  wondering. 

''Alike?"     She  was  incredulous. 

Jane  nodded. 

"  The  thing  that  you  want  most  of  all  is  the  thing  that  I 
want  more  than  anything  else :     That  is  the  respect  of  men.*' 

She  paused  and  Bobby's  brows  drew  together  in  perplex- 
ity. 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  you,  you  were  trying  to  win  the  re- 
spect of  the  men  in  this  country  with  your  quirt.  Perhaps 
that  helped  you.  Perhaps  it  would  have  helped  me  had  I 
been  able  or  inclined  to  take  it  that  way. 

"  That  doesn't  matter.  The  thing  that  matters,  which 
gives  us  something  in  common  is  this :  You  found  that 
men  did  not  respect  you  and  so  did  L  Men  showed  their 
disrespect  for  you  by  .  .  .  well,  by  saying  unpardonable 
things.  Men  have  shown  their  disrespect  for  me  by  trying 
to  drive  me  out  of  the  country,  by  burning  and  stealing  and 
shooting  at  my  men.  .  .  . 

"  You  and  I  are  the  only  women  here.  These  men," — 
with  a  gesture  — "  can  not  understand  what  their  respect 
means  to  us.  It  is  the  only  thing  worth  while  in  our  lives. 
Isn't  that  so?  No  woman  can  be  happy  or  satisfied  unless 
she  has  the  respect  of  men.  That  is  because  our  mothers 
for  generations  back  have  been  mothers  because  men  re- 
spected them.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  believe  from  what  I  know  of  you  that  you  have 
ever  had  much  respect  from  men.  I  can  appreciate  what 
that  means  to  you,  because  it  appears  that  the  man  who 
should  have  respected  me  the  most  in  the  country  where  I 
came  from,  did  not  respect  me. 

"  There  was  one  man  I  used  to  know  who  was  supposed 
to  give  me  all  the  respect  that  a  man  could  give  a  woman : 
he  said  that  he  loved  me.  That  man," — there  was  a  quick 
movement  in  the  group  which  she  ignored  — "  followed  me 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  263 

west  to  tell  me  that  he  loved  me  again  and  when  he  found 
that  I  could  not  love  him,  he  showed  that  he  did  anything 
but  respect  me.  Do  you  understand  how  that  could  hurt? 
When  a  man  who  had  sworn  for  years  that  he  loved  me 
proved  that  ...  it  was  something  quite  different  ?  " 

She  paused  and  Bobby,  wide-eyed,  said : 

"  He  f  ollered  you  out  here  to  .  .  .  try  to  get  you  to  marry 
him  ?  " 

Jane  nodded. 

The  other  girl  turned  and  her  eyes  sought  out  Hilton's 
face,  which  was  contorted  with  raging  humiliation. 

*'  Is  that  so  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That's  a  lie !  "  he  snarled,  but  looked  away. 

"Is  that  JO .^" 

Her  tone  was  lowered,  but  she  hissed  the  question  at  him. 
She  strained  forward,  glaring  at  him,  and  averting  his  face 
he  said  again : 

"  It's  a  lie." 

But  the  assertion  was  without  conviction,  without  strength. 

Bobby  turned  back.     Her  lips  were  tight  and  trembling. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  tears  in  her  eyes  again,  and  her  man- 
ner proved  that  Hilton's  denial  had  fallen  far  short  of  being 
convincing. 

"  Then  there  were  other  factors :  As  soon  as  I  arrived 
here  things  commenced  to  go  wrong.  Because  I  was  a 
woman,  people  thought  they  could  usurp  my  rights.  My 
horses  were  stolen ;  my  hay  was  burned ;  my  ditches  broken. 
My  men  were  shot  at.  A  note  was  sent  to  me,  telling  me 
that  I'd  better  leave  the  country  while  I  had  something  left. 

''  You  see,  don't  you,  that  that  meant  that  men  —  it  must 
have  been  men  who  did  it  —  had  no  respect  for  me  ? 

"  This  water  down  here  was  fenced.  That  was  your 
right,  but  I  thought  I  could  persuade  you  to  help  me  a  little. 
I  think  yet  that  I  could  have  done  so  but  for  your  misunder- 
standing. .  .  . 

"  I  knew  that  you  wanted  the  respect  of  men.  I  knew 
that  about  all  you  had  in  life  was  your  self  respect.     I  knew 


264  THE  LAST  STRAW 

that  the  same  man  who  had  made  love  to  me  and  who  had 
not  meant  it,  was  making  love  to  you  and  not  meaning  it.  I 
called  him  to  see  me  and  tried  to  talk  him  out  of  it,  begged 
him  to  go  away  from  you  before  .  .  .  before  you  had 
stopped  respecting  yourself.  You  must  have  mistaken  my 
motive  in — " 

"  You  didn't  send  for  him  to  ask  him  to  take  you  back? 
You  didn't  do  that?" 

"  I  have  told  you  my  motive  once ;  that  was  the  truth  .  .  . 
whole  truth." 

Again  Bobby  turned  and  again  her  accusing,  flaring  eyes 
sought  Hilton's  distraught  face. 

*'  So  you  lied  to  me  again,  did  you?  That  was  a  lie,  was 
it?"  She  waited.  "Well,  why  don't  you  answer?"  she 
flung  at  him  and  stood,  directing  on  him  the  hate  that  she 
had  once  shown  for  Jane  Hunter. 

But  when  she  wheeled  sharply  back  to  confront  the  mis- 
tress of  the  H  C  her  eyes  were  bathed  in  tears,  her  head  was 
thrown  back,  and  she  threw  her  arms  wide. 

"  He  did  lie  to  me  !  "  she  panted.  *'  He  did.  ...  I  hated 
you  because  I  thought  you  had  friends  an'  folks  that  re- 
spected you.  He  lied  an'  it  made  me  hate  you  worse.  .  .  ." 
She  choked  with  sobs  and  Jane  stepped  down  from  the  rock 
to  put  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

*' Oh,  miss,  I've  acted  so  bad  to  you!"  Bobby  moaned 
lowly.  "  I  ...  I  didn't  know,  didn't  understand.  I 
thought  you  didn't  want  anything  but  harm  to  come  to  us. 
I  stole  from  you  because  I  hated  you.  .  .  .  I  .  .  ." 

She  threw  back  her  head  again  and  the  weakness  of  spir- 
itual distress  dropped  from  her.  Her  voice  grew  full  and 
firm. 

"  You've  treated  us  like  nobody  else  ever  treated  us  be- 
fore. You  had  Alf  tied  down  to  a  calf  stealin'  an'  you 
let  him  go.  You.  .  .  .  You've  been  tryin'  to  do  me  good 
all  the  while  I've  been  tryin'  to  do  you  harm.  They've  been 
warrin'  on  you  an'  I  ...  I  could  have  stopped  it ! " 

She  wheeled,  facing  the  men,  her  back  to  Jane.     Her 


A  MOUN'l  AIN  PORTIA  265 

shoulders  were  drawn  up  and  she  leaned  backward.  Her 
face  was  white,  voice  shrill.     Her  eyes  burned. 

"  Well  .  .  .  you,  Webb,  an'  Hepburn  an'  your  whole 
filthy  crew  .  .  .  I'm  done  with  you  at  last !  " 

Thunder  boomed  sharply.  The  gloom  was  so  deep  that 
the  features  of  the  men  she  addressed  could  scarcely  be 
made  out. 

"  You've  tried  to  double-cross  us  from  the  first.  You 
was  as  guilty  as  Alf  today  but  you  had  it  on  us.  I  couldn't 
make  a  move  without  gettin'  in  worse.  .  .  .  You,  Hilton, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  I'd  have  sent  the  bunch  of  you  to 
hell  by  tellin'  th'  straight  story  when  they  came  for  Alf  to- 
day !  I  ...  I  thought  you  loved  me," —  gaspingly.  "  Ah ! 
I  thought  you  loved  me,  an'  I'd  have  let  Alf  go  to  jail  alone 
because  of  it.  .  .  . 

''  Well,  it  ain't  too  late !  Listen,  all  of  you !  You  H  C 
riders,  don't  let  a  man  move  until  I  get  through !  " 

Her  eyes,  quick,  alert,  intent,  ran  from  face  to  face  before 
her  and  her  whole  body  trembled  as  though  the  things  that 
she  would  tell  clamoured  to  be  out  and  were  held  back  by 
great  effort  until  she  could  make  them  coherent. 

*'  Hepburn,  you're  first !  " 

The  man  made  one  movement  aside  as  if  he  would  evade 
and  Tom  Beck's  voice  rang  out  sharply : 

"  Not  a  move  !  " 

Jane  Hunter  wheeled,  a  stifled  word  in  her  throat  and 
watched  him  slowly  advance.  His  face  was  drawn  as  by 
great  suffering,  his  eyes  burned  as  though  his  heart  was 
wrenched  with  every  beat.  His  mouth  was  set  and  his  jaw 
thrust  forward  and  the  revolver  he  held  close  against  his 
hip  was  as  steady  as  rock.     He  moved  slowly  forward. 

*'  Swing  back  there,  you  men," —  and  at  his  gesture  the 
H  C  riders  deployed,  swinging  to  either  side.  He  stood 
beside  the  two  girls  at  the  point  of  a  V,  the  sides  of  which 
were  formed  by  cowboys  and  beyond  the  opening  of  which 
the  other  group  drew  together  as  for  protection  in  the  face 
of  this  coming  storm.     Hepburn  was  foremost  and  the  true 


(I 


266  THE  LAST  STRAW 

scoundrel  now  glared  through  the  mask  of  his  benevolence. 
Go  on/'  Beck  said  quietly. 

You're  first,"  the  girl  repeated,  as  though  there  had  been 
no  interruption. 

"  You  planned  to  steal  the  H  C  blind,  as  soon  as  th'  old 
owner  died.  You  didn't  have  th'  nerve  to  do  it  like  I'd  've 
done  it.  You  sent  for  us,  because  you  knowed  Alf  had  this 
brand  which  'uld  make  stealin'  easy !  " 

"You're  lying!" 

The  man's  voice  was  the  merest  croak,  weak  and  unim- 
pressive. 

"  You  wrote  us,  sayin'  it  would  be  easy  pickin'.  You 
said  you  would  likely  be  foreman  an'  that  anyhow  you'd  be 
workin'  for  the  H  C  an'  was  goin'  to  help  us  from  the 
inside. 

"  When  Miss  Hunter  come  an'  you  saw  what  she  was  like 
you  was  mighty  glad  of  it.  You  thought  you  could  ruin  her 
an'  pretend  you  was  trying  to  protect  her.  You  was  goin'  to 
get  half  what  we  got  for  your  share. 

"  You  had  Webb  run  off  them  eight  horses.  Th'  cat  got 
out  of  the  bag  an'  you  had  to  bring  'em  back  to  make  good 
with  Beck.  I  heard  you  tell  Alf  about  it  the  night  you 
started  out  an'  stayed  with  us.  Beck  suspected  you,  so  you 
shot  your  own  saddle  horn  to  make  your  story  good. 

"  Beck  wasn't  satisfied.  He  was  in  your  way,  so  you  an' 
Webb  framed  up  a  lie  about  him  an'  fixed  his  gun  so  it 
would  look  bad  for  him  ...  an'  it  didn't  work  because  Miss 
Hunter  here  beat  you  to  it. 

*'  Then  you  threw  in  with  Webb  an'  we  was  all  goin'  to 
work  together  and  drive  the  H  C  out  in  a  rush. 

"  You  dynamited  Cathedral  Tank  to  spoil  that  range. 
Then  somebody  shot  Two-Bits  an'  you  planned  with  us  not 
to  let  her  have  water,  knowin'  her  cattle  would  perish.  I 
was  glad  enough  to  keep  'em  from  water  then  because  I 
thought  ...  I  thought  she  wasn't  .  .  .  what  she  is." 

She  paused,  panting,  and  brushed  a  quick  hand  at  her 
tears. 


A  xMOUNTAIN  PORTIA  267 

"  Webb,  you've  been  stealin'  off  th'  H  C  for  years." 

The  man  took  a  quick  step  forward  and  halted  as  gun 
hands  jerked  rigid. 

"  You've  been  waitin'  your  chance.  When  Beck  made 
you  swallow  your  words  about  Miss  Hunter  you  went  hog- 
wild  to  get  him.  You  got  carin'  more  about  that  than  you 
did  about  gettin'  rich. 

"  You  shot  at  Beck's  bed  to  kill  him  when  he  slept.  You 
broke  her  ditches  an*  fired  her  hay  with  your  own  hands. 
You  wrote  that  note,  warnin'  her  to  get  out.  You  helped 
build  this  pen  here  an'  you  helped  steal  these  calves  an'  every 
one  of  'em  was  took  away  from  an  H  C  cow.  You  stole 
twenty  head  of  horses  than  nobody  knows  about. 

"  You  an'  Hepburn  thought  I  didn't  know  a  lot  of  this. 
Well,  I  did  know !  I  knowed  you  was  goin'  to  double-cross 
us  if  the  pinch  come  an'  Alf,  he  was  afraid  of  it,  too! 

**  I  heard  you  talkin'  nights  in  our  place.  I  watched  you 
ridin'  when  you  didn't  know  I  was  around.  I  listened  an' 
remembered.  I  was  one  of  you,  but  I  didn't  trust  you. 
I  wanted  to  steal  from  Miss  Hunter.  I  wanted  to  drive  her 
out  because  .  .  .  because  I  didn't  know  anybody  could  be 
kind  to  me  like  she's  been.  I  never  thought  anybcdy'd  do 
anythin'  for  me !  " 

She  stopped  again  to  regain  control  of  her  surging  emo- 
tions. 

"  An'  their  riders.  Miss  Hunter  " —  half  turning  to  look 
at  the  other  woman.  "  They're  a  bunch  of  cut-throats.  So 
are  our  greasers.  They  ain't  been  in  on  the  stealin'.  The}^ 
didn't  care  about  bein'  inside,  but  they  was  ready  to  murder 
if  they  had  a  chance.  They  —  Hepburn  an'  Webb  —  they 
thought  that  they  was  safe  because  every  one  of  the  rest  had 
enough  over  him  to  hang.  H  one  squealed  they'd  all  get 
caught.  .  .  . 

'*  Even  us !  Why,  we  never  had  any  right  on  this  claim. 
Alf's  used  his  homestead  rights  before,  under  another  name. 
This  water  don't  belong  to  us.     Not  by  rights.     It's  all  open 


268  THE  LAST  STRAW 

range !  That's  what  we  was :  t'  worst  nest  of  outlaws  that 
ever  got  together  in  these  hills !  " 

She  choked  and  Jane,  her  hands  on  the  other's  arms,  could 
feel  the  tremors  shooting  through  her  lithe  frame. 

Riley  moved  a  step  forward  as  thunder  rolled  heavily  over- 
head, as  if  this  much  of  the  story  was  enough,  but  the  girl 
cried  out: 

*'  That  ain't  all !  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it !  I've 
finished  with  the  rest  an'  now  it's  you.  .  .  .  Hilton !  " 

Into  the  word  she  put  bitter  contempt  and  biting  scorn. 

"  Bah !  You  liar  !  "  she  drawled.  "  You  liar,  you  sneak, 
you  coward!  You  thought  none  of  us  could  follow  your 
game  an'  none  of  us  could  .  .  .  until  now. 

"  Why,  you've  been  behind  this  whole  thing.  It  was  you 
called  Hepburn  to  town  an'  ofifered  him  money  to  use  in  his 
dirty  work.  You  paid  for  this  fence  of  ours.  You  listened 
an'  used  your  head.  You  saw  things  quicker  'n  Hepburn 
an'  Webb  did,  an'  you  set  them  two  thinkin'  an'  they  never 
knew  you  was  doin'  it.  .  .  . 

"  He  was  th'  brains,  I  tell  you !  " —  with  an  inclusive  ges- 
ture to  the  men  who  listened  so  attentively.  **  He  wanted 
to  drive  Miss  Hunter  out  worse  'n  anybody.  He  wanted  to 
kill  Tom  Beck.  He  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  do  it  himself 
...  in  a  fair  fight.  He  shot  at  him  one  day  with  a  rifle 
but  just  as  he  shot  Beck  stopped  his  horse  to  look  at  some- 
thin'  in  his  hands,  that  locket  he  always  wears  an'  is  always 
lookin'  at,  I  guess.  .  .  .  He  didn't  know  I  saw  that  but  I 
did.  ... 

"  He  was  always  talkin'  Sam  McKee,  there,  up  to  kill 
Beck.     It's  likely  McKee  shot  Two-Bits  — " 

"  He  didn't !     I  didn't  do  it !  " 

McKee's  voice,  an  excited  cackle,  broke  in  on  her  but  the 
girl,  ignoring,  went  on : 

".  .  .  It  was  just  like  he  tried  to  talk  Webb  an'  Hepburn 
into  killin'.  That  was  his  way:  makin'  other  folks  do  th' 
things  he  was  scared  to  do ! 

"  An'  he  was  as  slick  with  me  as  he  was  with  them,  with 


A  MOUNTAIN  PORTIA  269 

his  lies  about  being  called  here  to  help  Miss  Hunter  on  busi- 
ness !  That's  why  I  didn't  think  all  this  out  before,  that's 
why  I  didn't  think  he  was  a  sneak  until  now.  He  ...  he 
said  he  wanted  to  marry  ...  to  marry  me.  .  .  ." 

She  put  a  palm  against  her  lips,  tears  spilled  over  her 
cheeks  as  she  turned.  For  a  brief,  heartbroken  moment  she 
stood  looking  into  Jane  Hunter's  face,  then  bowed  her  head 
to  the  other's  shoulder  and  cried  stormily. 

Beside  the  girls  was  a  quick  movement,  a  man  uttering 
one  explosive  word  as  though  it  gave  vent  to  an  emotion 
that  had  been  pent  deep  in  his  heart  for  long  and  while  the 
black  storm  clouds  seemed  to  shut  down  and  muffle  every 
sound,  even  Bobby  Cole's  excited  sobbing,  Tom  Beck  cried 
twice : 

"  Jane !  .  .  .  Jane ! " 

Bobby,  at  that,  turned  from  Jane  to  her  father  and  the 
mistress  of  the  H  C  faced  her  foreman.  When  she  had  first 
seen  him  she  betra3^ed  little  except  surprise;  now  she  made 
one  movement  as  though  she  would  throw  herself  upon  him 
but  again  the  look  in  his  face  checked  her. 

"  You  came  back  to  me,  Tom,"  she  said. 

"  Back,"  he  answered.  .  .  .  ''  But  I  can't  ever  come  back 
to  .  .  .  you.  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  miserable  self  loathing,  the  shame  in  his  heart, 
which  spoke,  and  it  was  that  which  made  her  see  him,  not 
as  the  strong  man  he  had  been  but  as  a  broken,  penitent^ 
self  denying  individual  .  .  .  denying  himself  the  love  that 
was  in  her  eyes,  mingled  with  the  relief  at  his  return  and 
the  joy  of  triumph  which  still  thrilled  her  .  .  .  that  love 
which  he  felt  unworthy  to  claim  because  he  had  doubted  it ! 

And  then  he  changed.  A  movement  sharp,  decided,  in  the 
group,  stiffened  him. 

"  Hold  up  1 "  he  cried.  "  Don't  one  of  you  move ! 
Jimmy,  take  two  men  to  the  Gap.  Hold  everybody  in  this 
Hole  until  we  can  get  the  sheriff,  this'U  be  a  clean-up 
for  — " 

A  blinding  flare,  a  crash  of  thunder  that  tore  sky  and 


270  THE  LAST  STRAW 

shook  earth,  broke  in  on  him.  There  was  a  rending  of 
tough  timber  as  the  bolt  ripped  down  a  cedar,  a  snorting  of 
horses.  And  in  that  stunning  instant  Dick  Hilton  leaped 
from  the  group,  vaulted  to  his  saddle  and  lashing  the  horse 
frantically,  made  off. 

A  revolver  cracked,  a  rifle  crashed.  Hilton  disappeared 
into  a  deluge  of  huge  drops  that  came  from  the  low,  scud- 
ding clouds.  Others  got  to  their  horses  and  a  fusillade  of 
shots  sounded  like  the  ripping  of  strong  cloth.  And  above 
it  rang  Jane  Hunter's  voice : 

"  Tom !  Oliver !  Hold  these  men.  I'll  bring  the  sheriff ! 
You  can  spare  me  and  only  me !  " 

With  a  hoarse  cry  Riley  dropped  his  revolver  and  clutched 
at  his  wounded  shoulder.  Horses  with  riders  and  horses 
running  wild  circled  the  place  where  a  moment  before  had 
been  a  compact  group  of  men,  but  now  Jane  Hunter  and 
Tom  Beck  stood  there  alone  while  from  all  about  stabs  of 
fire  pricked  the  darkness  or  were  lost  as  the  sky  blazed, 
while  those  who  shot  scarcely  knew  whether  they  were  de- 
fending themselves  from  friend  or  foe. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BATTLE ! 

JANE  found  herself  on  the  pinto  racing  through  the  night, 
ducking  under  cedars  until  she  was  clear  of  the  timber, 
crashing  through  brush,  leaping  washes  and  at  her  side, 
silent,  close,  protecting  her,  an  arm  ready  to  grasp  her  body 
should  her  horse  fall,  rode  Tom  Beck. 

They  made  straight  across  the  flat  toward  the  foot  of  the 
trail.  To  their  right  was  shooting  and  behind  them  a  sharp 
volley  rattled.  A  stray  bullet  zinged  angrily,  close  over 
their  heads. 

''  You've  got  to  get  out  of  this,  ma'am,"  Beck  cried. 
*'  There'll  be  hell  to  pay  before  mornin'.  There's  nothing 
they  won't  do  now." 

*'  Tom !     You  came  !  " 

Her  eyes  were  blinded  by  tears  as  she  turned  her  face  to 
him,  trying  to  put  into  words  the  forgiveness  which  she 
deemed  unnecessary  and  which  she  knew  was  the  one  essen- 
tial to  Tom  Beck,  which  she  knew  would  be  almost  impos- 
sible to  convey  convincingly.  But  through  the  tears  she  saw 
the  flash  of  a  gun  before  them  and  an  answering  flash.  A 
lengthy  flicker  of  lightning  showed  two  figures.  One,  Dick 
Hilton,  horse  drawn  back  on  his  hocks,  revolver  lifted. 
Tliey  saw  him  shoot  again  and  they  saw  that  other  figure, 
Baldy  Bowen,  who  was  there  to  block  the  trail,  crumple  in 
his  saddle  and  sag  forward,  struggle  heavily  to  regain  his 
position  and  then,  as  his  frightened  horse  moved  quickly, 
plunge  in  an  ungainly  mass  to  the  ground. 

Beck  raised  his  gun  as  Hilton's  horse  leaped  for  the  trail. 
He  shot  but  the  instant  of  light  had  passed,  making  the 
world  darker  by  contrast.  They  saw  fire  shoot  from  scram- 
bling hoofs. 

271 


272  THE  LAST  STRAW 

The  burst  of  rain  had  ceased,  the  interval  of  fury  broken ; 
the  storm  still  swirled,  roaring,  above  them,  but  it  was  dry 
and  black,  threatening,  holding  in  reserve  its  strength.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  another  horse,  cutting  in  before  them,  run- 
ning frantically,  and  Beck's  gun  hand  went  up  only  to  poise 
arrested  as  a  voice  came  to  them  with  the  singing  of  a  rope 
end  that  flayed  the  animal's  flanks. 

*'  Go ;  go !     Take  me  after  him !  " 

It  was  Bobby  Cole's  cry.  She  had  seen.  She  was  riding 
on  the  trail  of  the  man  who  would  have  been  her  betrayer. 

They  dismounted  hastily  and  stooped  over  the  figure  that 
lay  quiet  on  the  rocks.  Jane  stilled  her  sobbing  as  Beck 
rolled  the  body  over  and  felt  and  listened. 

"  Dead,"  he  said  huskily. 

"  Dead !  "  echoed  Jane.  "  Dick  killed  him !  Oh  .  .  . 
beastly !  " 

Fresh  firing  behind  them.  The  shout  of  a  man  and  an 
answer.     More  shots,  coming  closer. 

"  You've  got  to  get  out,"  Beck  said  lowly,  lifting  her  from 
her  knees  beside  the  dead  rider.  ''  There'll  be  hell  here  to- 
night and  it's  no  place  for  you.     You  bring  the  law !  " 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  should  stay.  There'll  be  others  killed 
and  it's  my  fight !  " 

Her's  was  a  cry  of  anguish^but  he  replied : 

"  You'll  save  lives  by  bringin'  help.  And  hurry,  ma'am, 
liurry !  " 

His  only  thought  was  to  get  her  to  safety. 

A  rifle  crashed  twice  not  a  hundred  yards  from  them  and 
they  heard  a  running  horse  grunt  as  spurs  raked  his  sides. 

**  Get  up  and  get  out !  "  he  cried  hoarsely,  fearful  that  she 
might  insist  on  lingering  in  this  place  which,  this  night,  was 
well  named  Devil's  Hole. 

"  There's  only  one  of  'em  ahead  of  you.  He's  bound  only 
to  make  his  get-away.  .  .  .  An'  the  Catamount,  she'll  clear 
your  way  if  he  does  turn  back !  " 

He  lifted  her  bodily  to  her  horse. 


BATTLE  I  273 

*'  It  seems  my  place  to  stay !  "  she  cried  as  shots  peppered 
the  storm.     "  To  stay  with  you,  Tc  n !  " 

"  It's  your  place  to  get  out !     Ride  !  " 

He  swung  his  hat  across  the  pinto's  hind  quarters  and  the 
animal  leaped  into  the  trail.  He  heard  Jane  cry  out  to  him 
to  stop. 

**  Go  on!  "  he  shouted.  "  Go  on!  It's  your  job  to  bring 
help!" 

And  he  heard  her  go  on,  the  horse  floundering  up  the 
steep  rise,  and  knew  that  she  obeyed.  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  out  across  the  flat. 

Far  down  toward  Cole's  cabin  was  a  shot.  A  riderless 
horse  went  past  him,  blowing  with  excitement.  He 
crouched  behind  a  boulder,  gun  in  his  hands,  peering  into 
the  darkness.  Others  would  not  travel  that  trail  that  night 
so  long  as  he  was  on  guard.  .  .  . 

The  fight  had  been  carried  in  both  directions,  further  up 
into  the  Hole,  on  down  toward  the  Gap.  H  C  riders,  par- 
tially assembled  and  identified,  had  closed  on  the  outlaws, 
cut  them  ofif  from  the  trail  and  for  the  space  of  many  min- 
utes there  was  no  revealed  action,  each  waiting  for  the 
others  to  show  themselves. 

Again  in  the  distance  was  the  mutter  of  thunder  and  a 
brilliant,  prolonged  flash  of  lightning.  The  wind  had  sub- 
sided to  breathless  silence  as  if  the  heavens  marshaled  their 
forces  for  fresh  outbursts.  Beck  started  up  as  the  clouds 
flared,  looking  quickly  about.  He  saw  a  horse  with  an  empty 
saddle.  He  saw  a  man  standing  waist  deep  in  brush,  a  rifle 
at  his  hip,  ready  to  fire.  He  could  not  recognize  the  man. 
Darkness ;  again,  a  silent  lighting  of  the  skies,  and  with  that 
the  stillness  was  broken.  There  was  the  sharp  crack  of  a 
rifle  far  to  his  left,  up  toward  the  head  of  the  Hole.  None 
replied  to  the  shot.  A  moment  later  the  clouds  sent  out 
their  flare  again  .  .  .  and  this  time  two  shots  echoed. 

Beck  'started  up  with  a  low  cry.  Above  on  the  trail  he 
had  seen  Jane  Hunter's  pinto,  making  for  the  high  country, 
and  those  two  stabs  of  yellow  flame  had  been  aimed  upward 
and  toward  the  wall  to  which  her  path  clung. 


274  THE  LAST  STRAW 

It  seemed  to  the  man  an  age  until  lightning  again  revealed 
the  earth.  He  had  an  i  ipression  of  a  horseman  far  toward 
the  top  of  the  trail  and  behind  him  another,  riding  hard; 
and  lastly,  Jane's  pinto  toiling  bravely  up  the  sharp  climb. 

And  as  darkness  cut  in  again  two  more  fangs  of  flame 
darted  toward  her! 

Jane  Hunter,  without  protection,  wholly  revealed  by  the 
lightning,  was  a  target  for  merciless  men,  for  men  who  had 
nothing  to  lose  and  at  least  a  fighting  chance  to  gain  by 
stopping  her ! 

He  had  believed  that  she  was  going  to  safety ;  he  had  un- 
derestimated the  maliciousness  of  those  men  she  had  driven 
into  the  open  that  afternoon.  He  had  neglected  to  con- 
sider the  fact  that  on  the  trail  she  was  without  protection  of 
any  sort  and  that  lightning  would  make  her  stand  out  like 
a  cameo !  He  forgot  his  mental  stress,  he  relegated  his  duty 
as  sentinel  to  inconsequence,  for  she  was  in  great  danger 
and  needed  help !  It  was  a  joy  to  know  that  the  life  in  his 
body,  the  blood  in  his  flesh,  might  be  the  one  thing  she 
needed,  for  only  by  offering  those  possessions  could  he  atone 
for  his  faithlessness.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  could  regain 
that  desire  to  possess  her.  He  only  wanted  her  to  know 
that  what  he  had  to  give  was  hers ;  that  was  all ! 

Then  another  rider  was  on  the  trail :  Tom  Beck,  roweling 
his  horse,  fanning  his  shoulders  with  the  rein  ends,  crying 
aloud  to  him  for  speed,  his  gun  in  his  holster,  a  useless  thing. 

He  rode  with  abandon  in  the  darkness,  urging  the  horse 
to  a  speed  that  mocked  safety.  Stones  were  scattered  by 
the  animal's  spurning  feet  and  he  heard  them  strike  below, 
the  sounds  becoming  fainter  as  he  mounted  the  steep  rise. 
Lightning  again  and  the  viper  spits  down  there  in  the  flat 
licked  out  for  the  woman  ahead.  Beck  swore  aloud  and  beat 
his  horse's  flanks  with  his  hat. 

The  darkness,  though  it  handicapped  speed  and  enhanced 
the  danger  of  his  race,  was  relief.  When  it  was  dark  they 
could  not  fire.  .  .  . 


BA'i  TLE !  275 

And  he  knew  they  were  waiting  down  there,  rifles  ready, 
straining  to  see  in  the  next  burst  of  hght.  .  .  . 

He  begged  of  the  Almighty  to  send  rain,  to  hold  back  the 
lightning,  but  no  rain  came ;  the  flares  continued.  He  heard 
another  shot,  closer,  from  behind,  and  knew  it  was  the  rifle- 
man he  had  seen  standing  in  the  brush  firing  at  those  who 
menaced  Jane  Hunter's  safety. 

He  was  gaining  on  the  pinto,  slowly,  with  agonizing  slow- 
ness. His  big  brown  horse  drove  on,  but,  when  in  darkness 
and  without  perspective,  it  seemed  as  though  his  hoofs  beat 
upon  a  treadmill.  The  animal's  eycited  breathing  became 
more  clearly  defined.  .  .  .  The  pinto  ahead  crawled  slowly 
and  awkwardly  like  a  dying  animal,  many  minutes  from 
shelter.  .  .  . 

One  of  those  spurts  of  flame  stung  toward  Beck.  He 
heard,  almost  as  he  saw  it,  the  spatter  of  a  bullet  on  the  rock 
behind  him.     He  lay  low  on  his  horse's  mane. 

The  glimmer  of  lightning,  unaccompanied  now  by  thun- 
der, became  almost  continuous.  Against  the  white  face  of 
the  mountain  the  riders  were  like  silhouette  targets.  Below 
there  were  stabs  of  fire  from  a  dozen  places,  like  fire-flies 
on  a  summer  night,  but  carrying  death. 

Two  bullets,  close  together,  snarled  past  him,  one  above, 
the  other  just  ahead,  perhaps  in  a  line  behind  his  horse's 
ears.  He  hoped  wildly  that  they  were  directing  all  their  fire 
at  him,  that  he  was  drawing  it  from  the  girl  above  but  even 
as  this  hope  mounted  the  skies  coruscated  again  and  he  saw 
that  the  pinto  was  stopped,  saw  that  Jane  was  slipping  to  the 
narrow  trail,  her  body  wedged  between  the  clifif  and  the  body 
of  the  horse. 

For  an  interminable  tim.e  blackness  seemed  to  hold.  The 
big  brown,  whose  breath  was  now  laboring  with  exhaustion 
as  well  as  with  excitement,  gasped  scarcely  a  dozen  breaths 
before  the  greeny  light  came  again  but  to  his  rider  it  was 
an  aeon  of  time.  Tom  Beck  passed  through  the  veriest 
depths  of  torment   in  that  interval  and  unconsciously   he 


276  THE  LAST  STRAW 

shouted  into  the  night  incoherent  cries  of  suffering.  He 
had  been  too  late  !  He  had  sent  her  to  physical  suffering,  to 
her  death,  perhaps,  and  before  he  could  make  her  under- 
stand that  he  blamed  himself  as  only  a  just  man  who  has 
been  unjust  can  crush  himself  with  execration ! 

But  light  came  and  he  saw  her,  still  alive,  still  safe ! 

The  pinto  was  down,  hind  feet  over  the  trail.  Wounded, 
he  had  tried  to  turn  back,  tail  to  the  abyss  as  a  mountain 
bred  animal  will  turn.  He  had  moved  on  unsteady  limbs, 
his  hind  feet  slipped  over  the  edge  and  moaning,  head  back, 
eyes  bulging,  he  clawed  wih  his  fore  hoofs  to  stay  his  fall. 
Clinging  to  the  reins,  calling  aloud  her  encouragement,  the 
girl  helped  with  voice  and  limbs. 

For  an  interval  she  balanced  the  pull  of  the  animal's  own 
weight.  .  .  . 

And  when  Tom  Beck  could  see  again  she  was  alone  on  the 
trail,  one  arm  raised  to  her  face  as  she  cringed  from  the  bul- 
lets that  spattered  all  about! 

He  cursed  his  horse,  lashing  furiously,  spurring  in  the 
shoulders  without  mercy.  He  came  up  to  her  and  she  faced 
him,  lips  tight  and  in  the  dance  of  cloud  fire  he  saw  her 
eyes  wide,  nostrils  distended. 

"  Get  up  here!  "  he  muttered  and  lifted  her  to  his  saddle 
horn,  winding  his  arms  about  her,  bowing  his  head  and 
shoulders  over  hers  to  take  the  missiles  in  his  own  body  first. 

She  clutched  him  frantically,  her  warm  arms  around  his 
neck,  her  trembling  limbs  across  his  thigh  with  his  hand 
hooked  beneath  the  knees,  her  soft  breast  cleaving  to  his 
and,  slipping  through  his  opened  shirt  the  little  gold  locket 
that  was  at  her  throat  pressed  against  his  heart.  ...  It  was 
cold  from  the  night  and  he  felt  it  send  a  tingle  through  his 
body.  Even  then  he  wondered,  with  the  strange  sharpness 
which  stressed  thought  will  give  to  irrelevant  matters,  what 
it  contained ! 

"  Tom !     It's  good  to  have  you  !  " 

Good  to  have  him !  With  death  singing  all  about  her  it 
was  good  to  have  him ;  it  was  her  first  thought ! 


BATTLE  I  277 

*'  It  would  be  good  to  die  for  you !  "  he  said. 

"  No,  no  !  " —  sharply.  "  Not  that,  Tom !  Live  for  me 
.  .  .  live  for  me !  " 

She  felt  him  start  and  shudder  and  sway  and  a  moan  broke 
from  his  lips  as  a  scorching,  tearing  thing  ripped  at  the  small 
of  his  back,  burrowing  devilishly  into  his  very  vitals.  She 
clutched  him  closer,  not  understanding. 

It's  all  I've  got  to  give  you,"  he  muttered  unnaturally. 

My  life's  all  I've  got,  ma'am.  I'd  be  proud  to  give  it.  .  .  . 
It's  a  little  thing  to  give  to  pay  ...  a  debt  like  I  owe 
you.  ... 

"  You  keep  your  body  behind  mine  .  .  .  always  .  ,  .  un- 
til we  get  to  the  top.  ..." 

"  Tom !  "—  in  alarm.  "  You're  hit.  ...  Oh,  Tom  ! '' 
She  shook  him,  hitching  herself  about  that  she  might  see  his 
face.     "  Tom  !  " 

''  A  scratch,''  he  said.     "  Just  a  — " 

The  horse  threw  up  his  head  and  recoiled  as  a  bullet  sang 
past. 

''A  —  scratch,"  he  finished. 

The  girl  looked  about  wildly.  She  knew  there  was  no 
shelter  there,  not  a  ledge  behind  which  they  could  hide,  not 
a  tree  that  would  screen  them.  The  wall  rose  straight  on 
one  side,  fell  sheer  on  the  other.  There  was  no  place  to  go 
but  up ;  they  could  not  turn  there  and  go  down  for  there 
was  no  room  .  .  .  the  pinto,  shot  through  the  belly,  had 
tried  that ! 

The  firing  below  grew  more  rapid.  It  did  not  wait  for 
the  lightning  flashes  now.  Those  spats  of  yellow  fire  struck 
upward  continuously;  in  darkness,  blindly;  in  light  search- 
ing intelligently  as  the  riders  moved  upward,  nearer  safety. 
H  C  men  closed  in  on  those  who  shot  at  the  figures  on  the 
trail,  aiming  at  the  flurries  of  viper  light,  meeting  counter 
fire  as  they  drew  nearer  the  murderous  group  of  men. 

"  Fireflies !  "  Beck  muttered  as  he  looked  down  again. 
**  Lightnin'  bugs  let  loose  from  hell !  " 

When  there  was  no  fire  in  the  clouds  those  light  points 


278  THE  LAST  STRAW 

looked  so  harmless,  down  there  in  the  soft,  velvet  darkness ! 
Well  they  might  have  been  insects,  bedecking  a  summer 
night  .  .  .  but  from  them  came  the  whining,  droning,  search- 
ing projectiles  that  flew  to  find  his  life  and  Jane  Hunter's 
hfe! 

Fifty  yards  further  was  the  first  rise  of  rock  that  would 
protect  them  from  below.  Fifty  yards,  and  the  horse,  under 
this  added  burden,  was  sobbing  as  he  staggered. 

Beck  swayed  forward  and  regained  his  balance  with  an 
effort  that  cost  him  a  groan,  but  his  arms,  tight  about  Jane 
Hunter's  body  did  not  relax  a  trifle ;  they  held  like  tough, 
green  wood.  The  girl  cried  out  to  him  again,  that  he  was 
hurt.  .  .  . 

*'  It's  nothin',  ...  my  Hfe,"  he  replied.  ''  It's  all  I  could 
do  .  .  .  for  doubtin'  you.  I  couldn't  ask  you  to  .  .  .  love 
me.  ...  I  could  die  for  you  .  .  .  that's  all,  ma'am.  .  .  ." 

*'  Tom,  Tom !  Keep  your  head ;  keep  your  head  one  min- 
ute longer ;  we'll  be  safe.  .  .  .  Safe,  then.  .  .  ." 

Thirty  yards  to  the  place  where  the  trail  ran  between  up- 
rising walls  of  rock;  thirty  yards  to  that  shelter;  thirty  yards 
to  safety.  .  .  . 

But  she  looked  down  at  those  deadly  fireflies  playing  on 
the  flat,  and  did  not  see  a  hatless  man,  crouched  forward, 
run  down  the  trail  toward  them,  pistol  in  his  hand.  .  .  . 

Dick  Hilton,  who  had  escaped  the  Hole  only  to  realize 
that  there  was  no  escape,  was  waiting  to  vent  the  last  drop 
of  poison  in  his  heart.  .  .  .  Nor  did  Jane  see,  nor  did  Hilton 
suspect,  that  waiting  there  for  him  was  another  stalker,  who 
had  followed  and  lost  him,  who  had  turned  back,  who  had 
seen  the  travelers  up  the  trail  and  who  waited  their  approach 
screened  by  timber.  .  .  . 

Bobby  Cole's  heart  leaped  as  she  saw  him  run  crouching 
to  meet  Tom  Beck,  and  her  gun  leaped  to  position  .  .  .  and 
she  waited  there  in  the  darkness  for  the  next  flash  of  light 
...  as  men  waited  below  ...  as  Jane  Hunter  waited,  with 
her  heart  racing  in  despair ;  as  Dick  Hilton,  gibbering  under 
his  breath,  waited.  .  .  . 


BATTLE  I  279 

The  big  brown  horse  stumbled  and  Tom  Beck  cried  aloud 
in  fear  and  pain,  cried  drunkenly,  as  his  blood  drenched  the 
saddle.     Twenty  yards  to  the  shelter  of  solid  rock  .  .  .  ten 

•       •       •       ^-L  V  ^«       ■       •       • 

And  a  scarecrow  figure  leaped  from  it  at  them,  revealed 
by  a  long,  green  glimmer. 

"  Damn  you.  Beck !  Damn  you,  you've  ruined  me ;  you 
drove  me  to  this.  .  .  .  Now,  take  th  — " 

His  gun  had  whipped  up  even  as  the  gun  of  the  girl  they 
saw  behind  him  whipped  up. 

Neither  fired. 

Down  below  had  come  those  winking  fangs  again  and 
Hilton's  voice  trailed  into  a  rising,  rasping  gasp  as  missiles 
from  his  compatriots  drilled  his  body. 

His  pistol  dropped  to  the  rock.  He  put  his  hands  to  his 
stomach. 

"  Damn  your — " 

He  choked  on  the  word,  and  as  he  choked  he  took  one 
blind  step  forward,  over  the  brink.  As  he  fell  he  threvv 
up  his  hands  and  sailed  downward  into  the  depths,  into  the 
coming  darkness.  .  .  . 

The  brown  horse  had  halted,  but  as  Jane  Hunter  slipped 
to  the  ground,  holding  Beck's  sagging  body  with  all  her 
strength,  he  stepped  forward,  in  behind  the  rocks :  their 
haven.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  they  got  him!"  Bobby  sobbed.  "They  got 
him.  .  .  ." 

She  might  have  meant  Hilton,  but  if  so  the  pity,  the  regret 
in  her  voice  was  a  mourning  of  her  dead  love,  not  the  dead 
lover;  or  she  might  have  meant  Tom  Beck  and  the  tone 
might  have  been  sympathy  for  the  woman  she  had  come  to 
understand,  the  woman  who  had  respect  for  her  and  who 
she  could  respect.  .  .  . 

They  let  Tom's  body  to  the  trail.  The  horse  moved  off. 
Hastily  Bobby  ripped  open  his  shirt.  .  .  . 

"  Through  the  hips,"  she  whispered.  "  Through  the 
hip 


)s. 


28o  THE  LAST  STRAW 

"  Look !  " —  starting  up.  "  He's  movin'  his  foot.  It 
didn't  get  his  spine ;  it  didn't  get  his  spine.  .  .  ." 

She  tore  open  her  shirt  and  tugged  at  the  undergarment 
beneath  it.  She  stuffed  it  into  the  wound  deftly,  staying  the 
blood  while  Jane  Hunter,  Beck's  head  in  her  lap,  cried  aloud. 

"  Listen !  "  'Bobby  knelt  beside  the  other  woman,  hands 
on  her  shoulders,  peering  into  her  face.  ..."  You're  safe 
here.     They've  got  'em  cut  off  from  this  trail  below.  .  .  . 

"  My  horse  is  fresh.  I'm  goin'  to  your  ranch  for  help. 
He  ain't  goin'  to  die,  ma'am.  ...  I  promise  you  that.  .  .  . 
He  ain't  goin'  to  die  !  " 

She  was  gone  and  Jane  Hunter,  half  faint,  clinging  to 
that  promise  as  the  last,  the  only  thing  in  life,  lowered  her 
lips  to  her  lover's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


THE   LAST   STRAW 


IT  was  the  first  day  that  Tom  Beck  could  lie  on  his  back.. 
For  weeks  he  had  lain  on  his  face  there  in  the  living" 
room  of  the  ranch  house,  nursed  back  to  health  by  Jane- 
Hunter's  gentle  hands.  Now  the  doctor  had  turned  him 
over,  with  the  promise  that  he  would  not  only  be  sitting  up 
but  walking  before  long,  and  the  Veterans'  Society  had  been 
in  session. 

That  was  what  Two-Bits  called  it :  The  Veterans'  Society. 
Every  lafternoon  they  had  gathered  there,  Two-Bits  with  his 
slowly  healing  back,  Jimmy  Oliver,  after  his  leg  had  mended 
and  he  could  hobble  with  a  cane,  Joe  Black,  whose  arm  was 
just  out  of  its  sling  and,  occasionally,  Riley,  who  rode  up  the 
creek  holding  gingerly  his  one  shoulder,  to  fight  the  battle 
over  again. 

Summer  was  ripening  and  the  golden  sunlight  spilled  down 
onto  peaceful  mountains  from  a  mighty  sweep  of  sky.  A 
gentle  breeze  bent  the  tall  cottonwoods,  making  them  whis- 
per, making  the  birds  in  their  branches  sing  in  lazy  content- 
ment. Unmolested  cattle  ranged  in  prospering  hundreds. 
The  work  was  up,  fall  and  beef  ride  were  coming  .  .  .  and 
other  years  to  bring  their  toll  of  happiness  and  well  being, 
for  after  its  one  paroxysm  of  strife  the  country  had  settled 
back  to  easier  ways,  to  a  better,  more  wholesome  manner  of 
living. 

There  were  memories,  true,  kept  fresh  by  such  things  as; 
this  Veterans'  Society,  and  the  three  graves  in  Devil's  Hole 
where  rested  the  bodies  of  Sam  McKee,  Dad  Hepburn  and? 
Dick  Hilton,  for  there  was  none  to  claim  what  remained  of 
them.     Under  the  cottonwoods  slept  Baldy  Bowen,  his  grave 

281 


4( 


282  THE  LAST  STRAW 

surrounded  by  white  pickets  and  his  head  marked  by  a  stone. 

But  even  now  those  memories  were  less  poignant  than 
they  had  been  weeks  before.^  Interest  in  the  range  war  was 
waning  and  though  it  would  be  talked  about  across  bar  and 
bunk  house  stove  for  many  winters  the  thrill  of  it  was  gone 
....  as  the  horror  of  it  was  largely  gone  for  those  who  had 
:suffered  most. 

Two-Bits  had  lingered  after  the  departure  of  the  rest  and 
'sat  in  a  chair  beside  Tom's  cot.  Beck's  face  was  pale,  but 
his  eyes  were  alive  and  as  of  old,  evidence  of  satisfactory 
convalescence. 

"  So  you  think  there  is  a  hell,  Tommy  ?  "  he  asked. 

Beck  grunted  assent. 
Yeah.  I  know  there's  a  hell,  Two-Bits." 
My  brother  always  said  there  was.  He  said  it  was  an 
awful  place,  Tommy.  I'll  bet  two  bits  th'  old  Devil  was 
sorry  to  see  Hepburn  an'  Hilton  an'  Sam  McKee  comin'  in 
that  mornin' !  I'll  bet  he  says  to  hisself  :  '  Here's  some  right 
smart  competition  for  me ! '  " 

Beck  laughed  silently. 

"  Sometimes  I  get  feelin'  mighty  sorry  for  'em,"  the 
lanky  cow-boy  continued.  "  I  use  to  hate  Webb  somethin' 
awful  an'  I  sure  did  think  Hepburn  was  about  th'  lowest 
critter  that  walked.  .  .  .  God  ought  to  've  made  him  crawl ! 
Sam  McKee  never  was  no  good.  He  was  th'  meanest  man  I 
ever  saw.  .  .  . 

"  But,  shucks,  Tommy,  I  hate  to  think  of  'em  bein'  blis- 
tered all  th'  time  !  " 

"  That  ain't  the  kind  of  hell  I  referred  to,  Two-Bits.  I 
don't  know  much  about  that  kind,  with  brimstone  and  fire 
and  all  the  rest.  .  .  . 

"  There's  a  hell,  though.  Tommy.  It's  when  a  man  lets 
the  weakness  in  him  run  off  with  what  strength  he  has,  when 
he  don't  trust  those  who  deserve  to  be  trusted,  when  he's  sus- 
picious of  those  his  heart  tells  him  are  above  suspicion." 

Two-Bits  swallowed,  setting  his  Adam's  apple  leaping. 
"jHis  eyes  widened. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  283 

"  Gosh,  you  talk  just  like  th'  Reverend !  "  he  said,  and 
Beck  laughed  until  his  wound  hurt  him. 

"  Well,  if  they  ain't  in  hell,  they're  under  an  awful  lot  of 
rocks,"  he  added.  '*  That's  all  I  care,  to  have  'em  out  of 
her  way." 

''  Yes,  it  makes  it  smoother.  Real  folks,  men  who  de- 
serve the  name,  won't  do  anything  but  trust  her  and  help 
her." 

"  Not  after  the  way  she  made  'em  come  out  of  their  holes ! 
That  trial  must  've  been  grand,  Tommy!  I'd  've  give  two 
bits  to  seen  it  an'  heard  it ! 

"  She  won't  have  no  trouble  no  more.  Everybody  knows 
she's  got  more  head  than  most  men  on  this  here  creek. 
But  she's  got  somethin'  else !  She's  got  a  ...  a  gentle 
way  with  her  that  makes  everybody  want  to  do  things  for 
her. 

"Look  at  how  she  treated  Cole.  \\'hy,  anybody  else  'd 
run  him  off !  'Stead  of  that  she  gets  Bobby  Cole  to  file  on 
that  claim  an'  helps  'em  to  build  a  good  house  an'  wants  'em 
to  stay.  You  can  bet  your  life  that  H  C  cattle  '11  get  water 
there  now.  That  catamount  .  .  .  hell,  she'd  carry  it  for 
'em  if  there  wasn't  any  other  way  to  get  it  to  'em!  " 

"  Yes,  Bobby's  changed." 

"  Should  say  she  is  changed !  She's  got  a  different  look 
to  her,  not  so  hard  an'  horstile  as  she  used  to  be ;  she's  plumb 
doe-cyle  now ! 

"  I  expect  she's  glad  she  didn't  kill  Hilton.  If  she  hadn't 
changed  she'd  been  glad  to  do  it.  But,  bein'  like  she  is  now, 
she  wouldn't  want  to  hurt  nobody.  .  .  .  Unless  that  some- 
body wanted  to  hurt  Miss  Hunter." 

His  eyes  roved  off  down  the  road  and  settled  on  a  swiftly 
moving  horse,  the  great  sorrel  who  was  bringing  Jane 
Hunter  back  to  the  ranch  after  a  ride  far  down  the  creek. 

''  Speakin'  of  Hell,  Tommy :  there  mebby  ain't  any  like 
the  Reverend  claims  there  is,  but  there's  a  Heaven!  I'll 
bet  two  bits  there  is !     I'll  gamble  on  it  because  I  know  an 


284  THE  LAST  STRAW 

angel  that  stepped  right  down  that  there,  now,  solid  gold 
ladder.  .  .  . 

"  She's  comin'  up  th'  road.  .  .  .  An'  Mister  Two-Bits 
Beal,  esquire,  is  goin'  to  drift  out  of  here !  '* 

With  a  broad  wink,  which  set  a  suggestion  of  a  flush  into 
Beck's  cheeks,  he  took  his  hat  and  departed. 

Jane  entered,  drawing  the  pin  from  her  hat ;  then  stopped 
on  the  threshold  with  a  cry. 

'*  Oh,  the  doctor's  been  here  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  he's  rolled  the  old  carcass  over,"  'Beck  an- 
swered. 

She  stood  looking  dow-n  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then 
dropped  quickly  to  her  knees. 

"  It's  so  good  to  look  into  your  eyes  again,"  she  whispered, 
and  though  her  own  eyes  were  bright  there  were  tears  in  her 
voice. 

Beck's  gaze  wavered  and  he  slowly  withdrew  the  hand 
that  she  had  taken. 

"  You  mustn't  look  like  that !  "  he  said,  turning  his  face 
from  her.  **  It's  more  than  I've  deserved,  it's  more  than  I 
have  a  right  to !  " 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  gently,  bearing  no 
weight  upon  them,  and  said  soberly: 

*'  Look  at  me,  Tom  Beck !  " 

He  obeyed,  rather  reluctantly. 

*'  I  have  waited,  oh,  so  long,  to  talk  to  you !  I  promised 
the  doctor  that  nothing  should  disturb  you  until  you  were 
well.  That's  one  reason  why  I  brought  you  into  the  house, 
instead  of  leaving  you  with  the  men:  so  you  could  be  quiet. 

"  But  there  was  another  reason,  a  greater :  I  wanted  you 
here,  in  this  room,  in  my  house,  near  me,  where  I  could  see 
and  feel  and  help  you,  because  seeing  and  touching  and 
helping  you  helped  me! 

"  I  needed  your  help,  Tom !  I  shall  always  need  you 
near  me !  " 

"  Nobody  would  agree  with  you,"  he  protested.     ''  You're 


THE  L\ST  STRAW  285 

the  most  capable  man  in  the  country.     You  sure  can  look 
out  for  yourself." 

"  But  looking  out  for  myself  isn't  ail  That's  just  a  tiny 
part  of  life," —  indicating  how  small  it  was  with  a  thumb 
and  fore-finger.  "  It  belongs  to  the  side  of  me  which  owns 
this  ranch,  which  is  a  cattle  woman,  which  wants  to  fatten 
steers  and  raise  calves  and  prosper.  .  .  . 

"  There's  the  other  part,  the  big  part,  the  part  that  is 
really  worth  while :  It's  my  heart,  Tom.  It's  my  heart 
that  needs  vou !  " 

His  brows  puckered. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't !  "  he  said  huskily.  "  I  can't  help 
that  part.     I  had  my  chance  .  .  .  an'  I  threw  it  away." 

"  And  I  picked  it  up  !  Tom,  that  morning  when  you  were 
crawling  back  from  Cathedral  Tank,  across  the  desert,  I  was 
at  the  round-up  camp.  I  went  there  to  tell  you,  to  make 
you  understand — " 

"  That's  what  hurts :  that  you  had  to  ride  thirty  miles  to 
tell  me,  to  make  me  understand.  Why,  ma'am,  I  hadn't  any 
right  to  have  you  do  that  for  me.  It  was  me  who  should 
have  come  crawlin'  to  you !  " 

She  took  his  hand  again. 

"  Look  at  me !  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  striving  to  lighten  his  manner. 

*'  Yes,  Jane  I "  she  insisted. 
Jane,"  very  softly. 

You  are  very  foolish,  sticking  to  an  abstract  idea  of  how 
you  should  have  conducted  yourself.  You  wanted  to  die  for 
me  once ;  you  want  to  put  me  off  now  because  you  think 
you  wronged  me. 

*'  Don't  you  see  what  a  wrong  that  would  be !  Don't  you 
see  that?" 

She  leaned  forward,  hands  clasped  at  her  chin,  and  tears 
swam  upward  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  saying  the  things  I've  waited  so  long  to  say. 

"  You  have  lain  here  ever  since  that  black  night  when  they 
carried  you  in  and  I  had  to  feel  your  heart  to  know  whether 


286  THE  LAST  STRAW 

you  lived.  I've  tried  to  say  nothing  that  would  disturb  you, 
tried  to  keep  your  mind  off  the  thing  that  has  occupied  mine. 
But  I  know  you've  been  thinking;  I  know  you've  been  un- 
easy. I  have  seen  that  in  the  looks,  the  words,  the  way 
you've  laughed,  rather  forced  and  weakly  at  times.  I  have 
known  what  you  thought.  .  .  . 

"  You  are  very  foolish  to  be  concerned  with  an  idea  of 
how  you  should  have  conducted  yourself.  You  wanted  to 
die  for  me  once;  you  want  to  put  me  off  now  because  you 
think  you  wronged  me. 

"  I  am  not  forgiving  you  because  there  is  nothing  to  for- 
give. My  pride  was  hurt  and  by  yielding  to  it  I  shook  your 
faith  in  me.  It  was  weak  for  me  to  yield  to  pride;  it  was 
foolish  for  you  to  give  way  to  suspicion.  It  was  not  I  who 
yielded,  Tom ;  it  was  that  other  girl,  the  girl  who  came  to 
you  to  be  hurt  and  ridiculed  and  made  strong !  And  it  was 
not  the  Tom  Beck  who  loved  me  that  suspected ;  it  was  that 
other  man,  the  one  who  held  himself  back,  who  did  not 
take  chances,  who,  perhaps,  would  have  denied  himself  the 
finest  thing  in  life  if  he  had  always  walked  on  ground  with 
which  he  was  familiar.  ... 

"  And  now  to  carry  this  breach  from  the  past  into  the  fu- 
ture. .  .  .  Don't  you  see  w^hat  a  wrong  that  would  be? 
Don't  you  see  how  you  would  be  harming  yourself?  You, 
who  wanted  to  die  for  me,  would  be  refusing  to  live  for  me ! 
And  I  who  need  you  would  w^alk  alone.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see 
what  a  horrible  thing  that  would  be  to  both  of  us  .  .  .  my 
lover?" 

She  leaned  forward,  hands  clasped  at  her  breast,  and  the 
tears  swam  into  her  eyes.  She  was  very  beautiful,  very 
gentle  and  tender,  but  as  he  looked  he  felt  rather  than  saw 
the  strength  that  was  in  her :  the  character  that  had  stood 
alone,  that  had  been  herself  in  the  face  of  the  loss  of  love 
and  position,  and  that,  by  so  standing,  had  triumphed. 

For  a  breathless  instant  she  poised  so,  with  unsteady  lips, 
and  she  saw  the  want  come  into  his  face,  saw  the  old  re- 
serve, the  old  resolution  to  punish  himself  melt  away. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  287 

*'  I  want  you,  Jane !  "  he  whispered. 

The  evening  shadows  had  come  before  she  rose  from  her 
knees  and  drew  up  a  chair  to  sit  stroking  his  hand. 

His  eyes  rested  on  her  hungrily  and  after  a  time  they 
concentrated  on  the  locket  at  her  throat. 

"  Say !  Now  that  you've  done  me  the  honor  to  give  me 
a  second  chance  at  lovin'  you,  there's  somethin'  I  want  to 
ask." 

"  Ask  it.'' 

''  What's  in  that  locket  ?  " 

She  laughed  as  she  caught  it  in  her  fingers. 

•'My  luck!" 

"  I  understand  that.  It  brought  me  luck,  too,  but  there's" 
something  else.     Won't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

She  unclasped  the  trinket  and  held  it  in  her  hand,  turning 
it  over  slowly.  Then  she  sprung  the  catch  and  held  it  so  he 
could  see. 

Behind  the  disc  of  mica  lay  a  piece  of  oat  straw. 

"  That  is  the  last  straw,"  she  said  simply. 

He  did  not  understand. 

"  The  one  you  would  not  draw  that  day,  which  seems  so 
long  ago !  " 

His  face  brightened. 
You  kept  it  ?  " 

I  clung  to  it  as  though  it  were  .  .  .  the  last  straw ! 
Why,  Tom,  can't  you  see  what  it  has  meant?  \i  you 
had  drawn  you  would  have  been  my  foreman.  You  would 
have  protected  me,  fought  for  me,  taken  care  of  me.  I'd 
never  have  been  forced  to  stand  alone,  never  been  forced  to 
try  to  do  something  for  myself,  by  myself.  Your  refusal 
put  on  me  the  responsibility  of  being  a  woman  or  a 
leech.  .  .  . 

"  I  drew  the  last  straw  that  day.  I  drew  the  responsibility 
of  keeping  the  H  C  on  its  feet.  I  feel  that  I  have  helped 
to  do  that.  .  .  ." 

"  You  have." 


288  THE  LAST  STRAW 


Cf. 


Through  sickness  and  through  death,  through  dark  days 
and  storms.  I  have  done  something!  I  have  walked  alone, 
unaided.  .  .  . 

"  And  I  have  made  you  love  me,  Tom.  .  .  .  That  is  the 
biggest  thing  I  have  done.  To  be  worthy  of  your  love  was 
my  greatest  undertaking.  By  being  worthy,  by  winning 
you,  I  have  justified  my  being  here,  my  walking  the  earth, 
my  breathing  the  air.  .  .  ." 

''  Sho !  "  he  cried  in  embarrassment,  and  took  the  locket 
and  fingered  it. 

His  hand  dropped  to  the  blanket  and  he  stared  upward 
as  though  a  fresh  idea  had  occurred  to  him. 

**  Say,  I  wonder  if  the  Reverend  was  a  regular  preacher  ?  '* 
he  asked. 

"  Why  ?  He  was  a  doer  of  good  works.  Why  consider 
his  actual  standing?  " 

''  Yeah.  But  I  mean,  could  he  marry  folks,  do  you 
s  pose  ? 

He  looked  at  her  again  and  in  his  eyes  was  that  amused 
twinkle,  the  laugh  of  a  man  assured,  content,  self  sufiicient 
.  .  .  and  behind  it  was  the  tenderness  that  comes  to  a  strong 
man's  eyes  only  when  he  looks  upon  the  woman  who  has 
given  him  love  for  love. 

"If  he  could  he'd  be  glad  to,"  he  said,  "  and  I  suspect 
that  he'd  throw  a  little  variety  into  the  ceremony  .  .  .  some- 
thing, likely,  about  your  fightin'  a  good  fight !  " 


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Cow  Puncher,  The.     By  Robert  J.  C.  Stead. 

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Rex  Beach. 
Cross  Currents.     By  Author  of  "Pollyanna." 
Cry  in  the  Wilderness,  A.    By  Mary  E.  Waller. 

Danger,  And  Other  Stories.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Dark  Hollow.  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Dark  Star,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers.  ,    t 

Daughter  Pays,  The.     By  Mrs.   Baillie  Reynolds.  | 

Day  of  Days,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance.  j| 

Depot  Master,  The.     Bv  Joseph  C.  Lincoln.  J 

f>esired  Woman,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben.  A 


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Destroying  Angel,  The.     By  Louis  Jos.  Vance. 

Devil's  Own,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Double  Traitor,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Empty  Pockets.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 

Eyes  of  the  Blind,  The.     By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Eye  of  Dread,  The.     By  Payne  Erskine. 

Eyes  of  the  World,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Extricating  Obadiah.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Felix  O'Day.     By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 
54-40  or  Fight.     By  Emerson  Hough. 
Fighting  Chance,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Fighting  Shepherdess,  The.     By  Caroline  Lockhart. 
Financier,  The.     By  Theodore  Dreiser. 
Flame,  The.     By  Olive  Wadsley. 
Flamsted  Quarries.     By  Mary  E.  Wallar. 
Forfeit,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Four  Million,  The.     By  O.  Henry. 
Fruitful  Vine,  The.     By  Robert  Hichens. 
Further   Adventures   of   Jimmie   Dale,   The.     By   Frank   L. 
Packard. 

Girl  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  A.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Girl  from  Keller's,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Girl  Philippa,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Girls  at  His  Billet,  The.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

God's  Country  and  the  Woman.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Going  Some.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Golden  Slipper.  The      By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Golden  Woman,  The.     By  Ridgwell   Cullum. 

Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Greyfriars  Bobby     By  Eleanor  Atkinson. 

Gun  Brand,  The.     By  James  B.  Hendryx. 

Halcyone.    Bv  Elinor  Glyn. 

Hand  of  Fu-Manchu.  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Havoc.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Heart  of  the  Desert,  The.     By  Honore  Willsie. 

Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  John  Fox,  Jr. 


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Heart  of  the  Sunset.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Heart  of  Thunder  Mountain,  The.     By  Edfrid  A.  Bingham. 

Her  Weight  in  Gold.     By  Geo.  B.  McCutcheon. 

Hidden  Children,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Hidden  Spring,  The.     By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Hiiiman,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Hills  of  Refuge,  The.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

His  OfHcial  Fiancee.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Hopalong  Cassidy.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Hound  from  the  North,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine 

Green. 
Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker.    By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 

I  Conquered.    By  Harold  Titus. 

Illustrious  Prince,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Initials  Only.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Inner  Law,  The.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Innocent.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer.  f 

In  the  Brooding  Wild.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum.  5 

Intriguers,  The.    By  Harold  Bindloss.  | 

Iron  Trail,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Iron  Woman,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

I  Spy.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Japonette.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Jean  of  the  Lazy   A.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Jeanne  of  the  Marshes.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Jennie  Gerhardt.     By  Theodore  Dreiser. 

Judgment  House,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 
Keith  of  the  Border.     By  Randall  Parrish.  ^ 
Kent  Knowles:  Ouahaug.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Kinedom  of  the  Blind,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

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King  Spruce.     Bv  Holman  Day. 

King's  Widow,  The.    By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Ladder  of  Swords.     B}'-  Gilbert  Parker. 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  William- 

son. 
Land-Girl's  Love  Story,  A.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Landloper,  The.     By  Holman  Day. 
Land  of  Long  Ago,  The.     By  Eliza  Calvert  Hall. 
Land  of  Strong  Men,  The.    By  A.  M.  Chisholra. 
Last  Trail,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 
Laugh  and  Live.     By  Douglas  Fairbanks. 
Laughing  Bill  Hyde.     By  Rex  Beach. 
Laughing  Girl,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Law  Breakers,  The.     Bj'-  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Lifted  Veil,  The.     By  Basil  King. 
Lighted  Way,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lin  McLean.     By  Owen  Wister, 
Lonesome  Land.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Long  Ever  Ago.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 
Lonely  Stronghold,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Long  Live  the  King.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Long  Roll,  The.     By  Mary  Johnston. 
Lord  Tony's  Wife.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 
Lost  Ambassador.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Prince,  The.     By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  The.     Bv  Randall  Parrish. 

Maid  of  the  Whispering  Hills,  The.    By  Vingie  E.  Roe. 

Maids  of  Paradise,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Major,  The.     By  Ralph  Connor. 

Malcer  of  History,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Malefactor,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Man  from  Bar  20,  The.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Man  in  Grey,  The.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Man  Trail,  The.     By  Henry  Oyen. 

Man  Who  Couldn't  Sleep,  The.    By  Arthur  Stringer. 


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Man  with  the  Club  Foot,  The.     By  Valentine  Williams. 

Mary-'Gusta.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mary  Moreland.     By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Mary  Regan.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Master  Mummer,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Who  W^rought,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Mischief  Maker,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Missioner,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Million's  Maid.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Molly  McDonald,     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Money  Master,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker, 

Money  Moon,  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Mountain  Girl,  The.     By  Payne  Erskine. 

Moving  Finger,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln, 

Mr.  Bingle.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratt's  Patients.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mrs.  Beifame.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Lady  Caprice.     By  Jeffrey  Farnol. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  Hasty  Arrow,  The.     By  Anna  K.  Green. 

Nameless  Man,  The.     By  Nataile  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Ne'er-Do-Weii,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Nest  Builders,  The.     By  Beatrice  Forbes-Robertson  Hale. 

Net,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

New  Clarion.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Night  Operator,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Night  Riders,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Nobody.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Okewood  of  the  Secret  Service.     By  the  Author  of   "The 

Man  with  the  Club  Foot." 
One  Way  Trail,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Open,  Sesame.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Otherwise  Phyllis.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 
Outlaw.  The.     By  Jackson  Gregory. 


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Paradise  Auction.    By  Nalbro  Hartley. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrot  &  Co.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Partners  of  the  Night.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passionate  Friends,  The.     By  H.  G.  Wells. 

Patrol  of  the  Sun  Dance  Trail,  The.     By  Ralph  Connor. 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.     By  Hiram  W.  Hays. 

Pawns  Count,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

People's  Man,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Perch  of  the  Devil.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Peter  Ruff  and  the  Double  Four.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Pidgin  Island.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Place  of  Honeymoon,  The.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Pool  of  Flame,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Postmaster,  The.     By  Joseph  C.   Lincoln. 

Prairie  Wife,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.     By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Promise,  The.     By  J.  B.  Hendryx. 

Proof  of  the  Pudding,  The.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 


Rainbow's  End,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Ranch  at  the  Wolverine,  The.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Ranching  for  Sylvia.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Ransom.     By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Reason  Why,  The.     By  Elinor  Glyn. 

Reclaimers,  The.     By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter, 

Red  Mist,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Red  Pepper  Burns.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Pepper's  Patients.     By  Grace  S.   Richmond. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Restless  Sex,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Return  of  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.     By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Return  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Riddle  of  Night,  The.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Rim  of  the  Desert,  The.     By  Ada  Woodruff  Anderson. 

Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine,  The.     By  J.  C.  Lincoln. 

Rising  Tide,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 


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Rocks  of  Valpre,  The.     By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Rogue  by  Compulsion,  A.     By  Victor  Bridges. 

Roorn^  Number  3.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rose  of  Old  Harpeth,  The.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Second  Choice.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Second  Violin,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Secret  History.     By  C.  N.  &  A,  M.  Williamson. 

Secret  of  the  Reef,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Seven  Darlings,  The.     By  Gouverneur  Morris. 

Shavings.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Sherry.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Side  of  the  Angels,  The.     By  Basil  King. 

Silver  Horde,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Sin  That  Was  His,  The.     By  Frank  L  Packard. 

Sixty-first  Second,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 

Soldier  of  the  Legion,  A.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Son  of  His  Father,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Son  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Source,  The.     By  Clarence  Buddington  Kelland. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spirit  in  Prison,  A.     By  Robert  Hichens. 

Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     (New  Edition.)     By  Zane  Grey. 

Spoilers,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Steele  of  the  Royal  Mounted.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Still  Jim.     By  Honore  Willsie. 

Story  of  Foss.  River  Ranch,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Story  of  Marco,  The.     By  Eleanor  H.  Porter. 

Strange  Case  of  Cavendish,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Strawberry  Acres.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Sudden  Jim.     By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.  By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Tarzan  of  the  Apes.  By  Edgar  R.  Burroughs. 
Tarzan  and  the  Jewels  of  Opar.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 


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